


Bound: Part III - Fulcrum

by Darkflames_Pyre



Series: The Bound Series [3]
Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Family, Fix-Fic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, International Rescue, Other, Siblings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-24 22:32:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 37,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4937683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkflames_Pyre/pseuds/Darkflames_Pyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><img/> </p><p>Space is immeasurable and endless, but is also finite and wholly intrinsic in how we live our lives. From birth we are perched upon a set of scales… the greatest fear we have is knowing whether or not the odds will stay within our favour. The final installment in the 'Bound' Series. Rated for some scattered coarse language and distressing themes. Movie-verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Measuring Time

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no, I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Also, in addition, any references to medical information is only found on the web, and any errors and discrepancies in the items used are purely my own.

_Space is immeasurable and endless, but is also finite and wholly intrinsic in how we live our lives. From birth we are perched upon a set of scales; the tiniest, most insignificant details are often the ones that create the fine line between life and death. The greatest fear we have is knowing whether or not the odds will stay within our favour. That is something I know only too well._

_Unless you can truly comprehend how frightening it is to know that you're living on borrowed time; that the second chance you got earlier in your life might just have used up all of your luck, then you've no idea how it feels to know you're dying, and there's just not one damn thing you can do about it._

_You hear all this hippy-dippy crap about being strong, and focusing on the positives rather than the negatives, and just believing you can do it, but let's see you try it when you're scared shitless and so frigging sick of being tired and sore and ill that you actually want it to end just to get relief from the never-ending misery._

_I hate psychobabble for a reason. It always comes from the people who don't have the faintest idea of what it is they're rambling about, or if they have had the misfortune to have experienced an illness such as this, they've been able to forget through time and dulling of knowing exactly how scary it is to be in this sort of situation, to know how Goddamn annoying it is. It's not that I'm begrudging them their triumph or that feeling of euphoric success, not in the slightest, but it's just that you actually have to be living in the moment to truly appreciate exactly how a person is feeling when they're fighting a war for their life._

_It sucks._

##

_This is so great!_

Seven weeks following my relapse diagnosis, three weeks after being admitted for surgery (plus a potentially lethal infection), and three days after being informed of the tentatively-approached, positively frightening news of a possible cure, and I'm finally being sprung from the hospital.

Sure, it's a half-victory at the most, seeing as I'll be returning in two weeks' time to undergo the irradiation chemotherapy to prepare me for transplant, but it is a fortnight of time where I'm going to be free from feeling so damn sick.

I'm still far from a hundred per cent; more like seventy-five-and-counting (and that's subtracting the underlying cause for all this stuff in the first place), but at the same time, I'm feeling better than I have been for quite some time. I've still got a fairly barking, deep cough, and I'm apparently running a low-grade fever, but all in all, it's accumulated enough of a good tilt to my state of health, that I'm being allowed to head home.

My side is almost completely back to normal, aside from the occasional deep pull if I twist too sharply, and the throb that emanates from the surface along the line of the scar, but I'm particularly surprised at how eager I am to be getting out of here, really… well not completely, as I'm looking forward to being home at the farm and actually being able to do something besides sleep and rest.

I'll still be doing a fair bit of resting, because I'm still recovering from major surgery, and I'm pretty bone-tired from the radiation therapy I started the day before yesterday, but I don't currently have a headache, nor am I puking. I consider the fact I'm going home (with the anticipation of a fortnight's equal to a holiday from school (in Alan's eyes at least)), a pretty big deal in the grand scheme of All That is Awesome.

The only issue is getting Doctor Kingston and my dratted discharge papers to actually make their way to my room.

I've clearly been hanging around with both Alan and Gordon for far too long, because I'm swinging my feet rather over-enthusiastically. I'm doubly pleased, because I'm actually wearing something other than socks or slippers for once, and in my distracted excitement, what makes me even giddier, somehow, is that for some reason, I'm over-examining them rather intently.

Odd, yes I know, but what would you be doing if you were staging what was the (least subtle in history) equivalent to a prison break? I'm a little bored, and more than overly keyed up, okay?

I've got my old Harvard sweater on, (it's more than a mite too big, considering how tiny an a amount of mass I've got on me at the moment, but I don't care, because it's comfortable and warm and I don't like the cold), and a pair of jeans that Dad went and bought me, along with a whole bagful of other clothes, because even with the teensy amount of weight I've managed to gain while in here, I'm much too far below the level I should be for someone of my height. It's good, the sense of normality the clothes are giving me, like the shoes.

I sigh. I'm stuck back on them again, but it's funny, because unlike the jeans, or even the hoodie, which I got my third year at college, the Keds I'm wearing are at least six years old, and well-worn. I guess I'm not the only Tracy to hang onto items of clothing, but damn I love these shoes.

They're rather cleaner than they've been in the entire time they've been in my possession, but they're still fairly raggedy and faded; the dark-grey washed out to a dirty-dishwater colour and the laces rather frayed and cut-ended. Unlike my brothers, who wore (wear) holes in their footwear so fast they need(ed) a new set every two months or so, I didn't play sport or rough-house as much as them, and so was (and am) able to hang on to my stuff for longer.

Biting my lip in amusement at myself, I shake my head. Here I am, musing about the average length of time for possession of shoes per Tracy, when I'm supposed to be getting out of here!

I've obviously let off a rather more expressive sigh than the ones beforehand, because Dad, leaning with his arms crossed at the foot of my bed, talking with Scott, who's standing propped against the wall, one foot up behind him to brace himself, looks over at me with a half-confused expression on his face. It clears up instantly as my eyes dart back towards the door, and Scott lets out a chuckle.

"Hey, John?" He snickers. "You heard of the phrase 'a watched pot never boils'? Try 'an anticipated doctor never arrives.'"

Cute Scott. I've had the opposite and it's not so hilarious then thanks.

I roll my eyes and ignore my idiot of an older brother, who has only recently managed to locate his sense of humour. _Why me, again? Big brothers suck._

I have to second-think my first thought there though, because of the way the past few weeks have been for my father and brothers, I'm lucky that I'm even here for him to poke fun at. And as far as what it was they'd experienced while I was near-comatose with fever, I'm inclined to let them joke as much as they like at my expense, much as it drives me crazy.

I've been determinedly ignoring the reasons why I'll be coming back here in a couple of weeks' time; the base reason for the return is so we can hopefully address the relapsed original cancer, but also in order to combat the secondary cancer that necessitated the surgery I'd undergone. When I'd been at a state of function that enabled me to absorb more complicated information and conversational nuances, they'd taken the chance to explain in a bit more depth about the mass that had rested behind my lung for God-knows how long before it had been discovered.

It's still a form of Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma, but thankfully, though it's fairly fast growing, it's still a more-treatable type, compared to the base disease I'm already suffering from.

I was still in a little bit of shock that the initial scans and the intensive barrage of tests I'd undergone back in March had missed the tumour, and I was also fairly confused as to why I'd not shown any symptoms until it was nearly too late. When I'd broached the subject with Doctor Kingston though, he'd explained to me that there was no way it could have been found unless we'd begun the tests with the knowledge to look for it.

The absence of symptoms in particular was (and still is) puzzling to me, but my doctor explained that due to the anomalous effects my tenures in 'Five's artificial atmosphere have on my body, coupled with the injuries I'd suffered in the missile blast, my system had had no way to tell me that there was something wrong. He had also said that bodies just react in different ways to one another, and my nerves and pain reactors might have just been so muted that they had at first thought that there was nothing there to respond to. He'd said that it could be a possible side-effect of my first course of chemotherapy as well. I understood.

It's given me a sense of relief that it was nothing I or my medical team had done to miss it, but it was still a small comfort when it had hit me how doubly hard this stage of the war was going to be.

It probably sounds pretty silly; me referring to the disease and the opposition it's putting towards me as a war for my life, but it really makes me feel that though it could appear that I may appear to be losing, that should this treatment not work, I can still try and convince myself that I've done the best I can to get past it.

It's the whole psychology of the thing, really, and through my life, I've become a pro at being able to convince myself for a temporary time to pretend that nothing is happening in order to cope. It's why I've had so many scattered episodes of emotion, that and you very quickly get used to these sorts of situations.

I've gone back to staring wistfully at the corridor beyond the door; freedom, finally, still awaiting. My family haven't had to wear the masks around me for the last day and a half, but I'll be wearing one anytime I venture outside the house (or hospital for that matter; there's one sitting on the nightstand right now), for the foreseeable future to prevent me from getting sick with anything before I'm due to come back in.

I'm so eager to get home, dammit, but of course; time is going ever more slowly than usual just because John Tracy wants to hurry up and get somewhere! Five minutes until I can leave!

I can see Scott and Dad exchanging grins over my impatience from the corner of my eye; I've finally regained my glasses, permanently (they don't want me wearing contacts because they're afraid they'll pose an infection-risk), and so it's much of a relief to be able to see my surroundings clearly without them swishing blurrily along like I'm trying to focus underwater.

Let them laugh. I know that they and the others are just as eager to have me back as I am to be escaping. They might try to deny it, but I know better.

I'm packed and everything; my small kit-bag settled on the bed at my hip, my Grandad-painted MENSA cap on my fuzz-balled head, and my hands tucked deep in my sweater pockets.

I grumble beneath my breath and flop backwards on the bed, with no heed for my aching-but-no-longer-seizing back, and roll my eyes at the ceiling, wanting very much in my really weird but amazingly centering mood to stamp my feet and grump like a little kid.

A smirk crosses my face at the imagination of the look on my father and brother's faces if I am to actually to do that, before I peer around my own skinny chest and folded arm to peer at the hallway, again.

Nope, still empty of all Doctor-kind.

_Dammit._

Waiting _really_ sucks.


	2. A Stop in the Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no, I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Also, in addition, any references to medical information is only found on the web, and any errors and discrepancies in the items used are purely my own.

The head rush comes swiftly and unexpectedly; belated and disorienting from my most recent movement.

The world greys out and a buzzing starts in my ears as I grab for stability on the only-just-made bed, and close my eyes; waiting for it to pass. It's been happening frequently, apparently because I'm getting used to moving about again. The first few trips I took around the ward were certainly interesting, because I could barely stand, let alone walk in anything resembling a straight line. Dad and Virgil's arms definitely got a workout on those occasions.

I feel firm hands –Scott's, with the feeling of the plaster cast– grab my shoulders to stop me flailing too badly. Despite that, the movement still lets loose a lance of pain down my bad side, and I clench my teeth against the still-healing, formerly-separated ribs as they complain under the strain of moving. It only takes up a few seconds of my decidedly-spotty concentration in reality, but in my mind, it still seems to take forever. It passes though, eventually, and having robbed me of my little bit of adrenaline, it just leaves me feeling tired and drained in the aftermath.

I close my eyes, and hate my stupid body for attacking me like this. I want to sleep, but at the same time, not. I'm doing that particular thing far too much, but simultaneously, my biologic systems insist that it's nowhere near enough for what it needs to try and repair itself. But with the amount of pain that I'm constantly in, all over my body; inside and out, it's just so hard to keep going, and put one foot in front of another on the road that leads to either salvation… or Hell.

Now I'm past the fogginess that my almost-gone infection left lingering, I know perfectly well what the coming months are going to bring, and there's absolutely no guarantee at all that despite the positives that this trial brings to the table, I'm going to survive this. My mind is a slave to my body right now and there's absolutely nothing I can do to rectify that, save refuse all and any treatment, and off myself when I get the chance and means to do so.

Believe me, I'm well aware that is the last thing my family wants to happen, me die in any sense of the word; whether by the disease or by my own hand, but really, I only accepted the treatment for my relapse in the first place because I just couldn't bear to see the distress on my family's faces if I had told them I didn't want it.

The past month has been complete hell for me, and even though I'm improving steadily in terms of not having to be in the hospital, the reality of the situation is that I'm still going far downhill in terms of the lymphoma. I'm terrified that I'm not going to weather the storm.

I'm in pain, continuously, annoyingly nauseous, and I'm on so many different pills and drugs that I'm practically a walking drugstore, and that's even without the chemotherapy medications that will be added to that very long list in the coming fortnight. I'm scared, I'm terrifyingly frightened, and trying my hardest not to show any of it to my family, because I know exactly how much this is hurting them, seeing me like this.

I know that I'm still not getting half of the situation, even with the clarity that the receding of the pneumonia has given me, and I know that it's my choice to block it out, no-one else's, but my family are not the ones facing the potential death sentence, it's me, and me alone. Even though I can tell that they're being ripped to pieces seeing me so ill, they can't honestly stand there and say that they understand what it is I'm dealing with right now.

I'm not circling the drain yet: I'm still kicking, still fighting (or at least trying), but I have to admit that these moments of clarity I'm having aren't helping me at all in trying to stay positive. The fact that my family isn't coping with the situation either (though they're trying to tell me otherwise), is enough to scare me even more.

My eyes blink open to see Scott's purple-blue ones looking down at me with concern, and I lift an eyebrow sardonically as he asks me if I'm quite alright.

"Yep." I say, almost-cheerfully, covering my maudlin mood. "Head rush."

Apparently, that explains everything, because my brother puts out his un-casted arm to give me a hand up. I grab it with my left hand, using my right elbow to gently lever myself into a seated position.

He'll be wearing it for at least the next three weeks, meaning no driving; which makes me laugh, considering the arguments he and Dad have over the steering wheel in the times they're both in the car. I never bothered to get my licence, preferring to take public transport, so it's more or less just a whole bundle of amusement for me, watching the two of them bicker.

Being the overly excited idiot he's been all morning, Scott snaps his hand out and flips my cap backwards off my forehead; his fingers rasping along the barely-there stubble on my cheeks that matches the fine hairs where my eyebrows are thickening again. I'm enjoying having it far too much to have shaved it off this morning, which makes me happy, like the shoes did.

The absence of the chemotherapy drugs in my system for the last few weeks has allowed the fine hairs to make a tentative reappearance, and I am determined to allow them to linger before they fall out again. Makes me look raggedy and unkempt, but I really can't bring myself to care. I feel too tired and exhausted to much worry about the fact that I look like something that's been dragged backwards through the hedgerow.

I shoot Scott a moody, half-irritated glare as I pull my hat back down over my eyes, glancing sideways as I hear Dad's soft chuckles at our antics. I know exactly what Scott's aim is in keeping me distracted, but I really don't care, because it's definitely working in helping me not to focus on the fact that the doctor still hasn't arrived with my release forms. Obviously there's been a hold-up of some description, but it doesn't do my nerves any good when I so badly want to get back to the homestead and my three younger brothers.

Oh, wait, that would be two; Alan's at Grandma's with Fermat, the Kyranos and Brains, studying again. Virge and Gordon in turn are back at the farmhouse, probably working on assignments of their own; away from the hyperactivity of the three younger ones. Gordon asked me this morning actually, if I could help him with an item on one of his; a mathematical section most likely, but he's not explained exactly what it is to me yet. I said I would, if I could, and if I wasn't too tired, that is.

I rub my eyes beneath my glasses, and try my hardest not to yawn. It's only just midday, but I'm so ready for a nap right now, it's not funny. It doesn't look like I'll be able to honour that particular request. Not unless I can get a few hours of shut-eye first.

I settle sleepily against Scott, where he's gone and propped himself up against the pillow-headboard. It's not usual for me to be so affectionate and initiate contact in this way, but I guess my brother could tell that my energy is flagging, and heck; I'll definitely take the waiting time to doze if I can. No point delaying the inevitable, after all.

They can carry me to the car if they have to. Time to sleep.

##

I realise that that is exactly what happened, when I wake up on the sofa at home.

I remember a vague impression of shifting and the faces of my older brother and father, but I can't recall any movements of my own that might have led me to getting here. Oh well.

I notice both that the lights are off, and that I'm warm and comfortable as I open my eyes; the pale sunlight filtering through the tiny gap in the drawn curtains behind the couch. I can feel the heaviness of a sleep-ache weighing down my head, so I close my eyes again and try to will it away. I'm distracted from that endeavour however, by the realisation that there's someone quite near to where I'm curled up. Though I clearly didn't see them when I had my eyes open that first time, they've obviously been sitting there for a while.

I inch my eyelids open again, braving the possibility of a true skull-crusher evolving, to satisfy the curiosity I'm feeling as to who it is sharing my temporary sanctuary.

It's Gordon, I discover; sitting quietly and unusually still on the armchair closest to the sofa, using the dim glow of a clip-light to see the text on the pages of the rather thick book balanced on his lap.

I've not moved in any way, other than opening my eyes, so the time of non-disturbance leaves me able to study my little brother's features in the dimness of the lounge. His hair is curling softly over his forehead, like it used to do when he was small, before he'd gone and shorn it off for his swim-meets and later, IR; and his green eyes are focused intently on his book. He's squinting a bit, which I know isn't good for him (even though he'd supposedly grown out of having to wear his spectacles), and he's muttering beneath his breath as he tears a bit of post-it sheet off the pad beside him, sliding it between the pages of the tome before he flips it over to the next spread.

I smile softly in affection; relaxing deeper into the pillows and waking up rather rapidly, despite my initial intentions of further sleep.

"Hey Gords… What're you up to?"

I don't intend to make him jump, but my brother startles anyway as I whisper hoarsely through the huskiness in my voice, his head whipping towards me as his book tumbles to the floor with a muffled thump.

"Hey," I caution, as he goes to lunge for it, watching him flinch as he moves too fast. "Take it easy. The book's okay, I'm sorry."

Gordon grunts noisily, rubbing his lower back and stretching his legs from where he's been curled up into the corner of the armchair. "You could've warned me John." He grumbles. "How is it that you move silently, even when you're half asleep?"

I grin slightly ruefully. "You actually have to move to 'move silently' Gords. All I did was talk."

And it's true too. I'm so comfortable that I'm kind of afraid to move because I know that all my normal aches will flare into life again, and I'm quite enjoying the respite from any sort of pain. Even my ribs aren't hurting at the moment, but I know that once I begin moving my chest for anything other than breathing, they'll be complaining all over again.

"In answer to your question," My younger brother says, reaching down to retrieve his book properly. "… I'm bookmarking notes for this assignment I have to do. I'm going to ask Dad if I can borrow the SUV to head over to the back paddock tomorrow and set up my vegetation site. I just need someone to help me make sure the parameters are right for it; you know how much I suck at mathematical equations. You still up for helping me? I know you can't come out with me or anything, but I can take the cam out with me, and we can use the up-link on my cell for you to give me directions..."

I feel a little upset that Gordon is being so tentative with me, but it's understandable, given how unwell I am. I nod anyway, grinning assuredly at him; glad that I'm not being treated like a piece of glass. He's the one brother, more than the others who understands exactly how I'm feeling right now in terms of independence.

"Sure." I tell him, and despite the dimness of the room, my brother obviously picks up on my enthusiasm for the project from that single word. He grins brightly at me, and I figure it's time to take a chance on disturbing my body's tentative peace and actually get up and move somewhere before I either get sick of staring at the same four walls, or else develop cramps in unfortunate places.

I uncurl myself from underneath the thick blanket that someone has piled on top of me, and slowly stretch out my limbs to get rid of any kinks that may have accumulated while I slept. I shiver a little as the outside air intrudes, but I quickly get used to it, in spite of the shivers from my continuous fever.

My throat is dry and thick with sleep, and I have to cough, despite my reservations, to be able to swallow enough to moisten it. It hurts my torso, but not unbearably so; although it does leave me with a disgusting mouthful of grot and nowhere to spit it, at least until Gordon suddenly relocates through time and space to offer me a tissue from the table behind my head.

He's turned the lamp there on as well, so I can see him as I wipe my mouth, and I gratefully take his hand as he offers me a quick way up off the couch. I realise, oddly, that there's absolutely no sound coming from anywhere past the half-open living room door, and it makes me wonder where on earth the rest of the family are. The farmhouse isn't anywhere near as big or soundproofed as the villa, and it's just plain disconcerting that there is nothing to be heard from the rest of the house, save for mine and Gordon's movements.

I get the feeling of a vague sense of déjà vu. I take a minute to get my bearings, and I suddenly place it as being from back when we were still on the island, and Alan was 'John Watching', but it didn't quite go according to plan. God, it seems like absolutely forever ago, but it's really only a month past.

I quirk a questioning glance at Gordon as we begin a slow trek across the lounge and towards the combined kitchen-dining area, and he seems to realise without me having to verbalise the question, what it is I'm asking about.

"Dad took Alan to the orthodontist's place for his retainer fitting, and Scott and Grandma went down to get some groceries for supper. She said that with all six of us in the house there's no way there's going to be enough food for us to survive two days without a trip into town." We share a smirk, knowing both Scott and Virgil's propensity of eating three to four fillings of whatever meal it is at any sitting. "They left about an hour ago; they'll be the first ones back, probably."

I nod, sinking into one of the dining chairs as we finally make it to our destination. I'm still clad in my clothes from this morning, minus the shoes –which did make it a little more difficult to stay steady on the hardwood floors– but I've never really liked wearing shoes unless I really have to, so it's not much of a loss that they've been removed, in my eyes.

I've caught my breath now, and I look around the kitchen, slightly puzzled as I try to work out exactly why I've allowed Gordon to steer me in here, and why I don't think I remember Gordon mentioning Virge at all. My first query is answered by the glass of water that makes its way into my field of vision, the second by Gordon himself, reading my mind again.

"Virge is upstairs somewhere." He tells me, quietly. "He's not admitted it to anyone, least of all me, but I can kind of tell he's not feeling well, even without asking. He's just sort of been drinking a lot of water again, and he went up and locked himself in his room about an hour ago. I think he's working on his assignments, but I'm not entirely sure." Gordon shrugs his shoulders. "I'm worried about him, but at the same time, I know that I can't push him. I know what he's feeling, and I just… I want to help, but I want to respect him at the same time. Know what I mean?"

I'm a little surprised to have Gordon flood his emotions on me like this, but he's obviously been bottling them up a little, and I guess that him spilling this bit about his feelings towards Virgil's situation is what he needs to allow himself to cope with things.

I don't react in any way other than to nod to acknowledge that he's been speaking, but from the way he smiles at me across the table, Gordon knows what I'm getting at even without me having to say anything. It's good, because it means that even though we're all dancing around each other like this; bits of conversation and deep-and-meaningfuls scattered all over places and through time, we're still supporting each family member as we all go along this road we've been directed on, and that idea in particular makes me pretty pleased, for now.

Gordon and I drift into a peaceful silence, and I realise just how much I've missed hanging out with my second-youngest brother. It's peaceful, despite the lingering worries and terror of my predicament, and the dark, oppressive thoughts of earlier today. It's a balm, almost, the companionship he and I are sharing right now, and I find myself nearly drifting off again as I lay my head on my arms; soaking in the temporary silence and the serenity it brings.

It's what I've needed, for a while it appears; a chance at some form of normalcy, and some one-on-one time that doesn't have to contain pressing questions and impatience. Gordon can be impulsive and overly hyperactive at times, but when he feels the need to think and reflect, he and I are amazingly alike.

We're still sitting there when the doorbell rings to announce the return of the rest of our family, and I find I'm much more at ease than I have been for a while.

I breathe in slowly, and stretch again, even as Gordon springs out of stillness and back into action; jogging down the hallway to get the door. It's a lapse in time; to just coast and breathe. No thought, no emotion. Just two brothers, sitting and relaxing still, even as the chaos of our family resumes.


	3. Disclosure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no, I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Also, in addition, any references to medical information is only found on the web, and any errors and discrepancies in the items used are purely my own.

Still swimming in leftover puddles of sleep, I'm not really paying attention when I hear returning footsteps.

A hand settles on my left shoulder, coming from behind, and I jump about a foot into the air as I react, cursing beneath my breath as I start in surprise; nearly slipping off my chair until I catch myself painfully on the table.

At first, I'm afraid that my fright will force me into a paroxysm of coughing and spasming chest, but I'm pleased to find that a wheezing gasp of shock is all that results.

The hand, sharper and smaller to those of my brothers, suddenly smacks into the back of my head, and I bite my tongue hard, as I realise exactly who it is behind me, and why exactly they're slapping me.

"Ow! Grandma!" I yelp, turning around in my seat to look at her; trying not to pout like Alan as I rub my palm against the back of my head. "I've got a headache! What was that for?"

She raises an eyebrow at me, the look in her eye that means she's not in a concession-friendly mood translating bright and clear onto her face.

"You know perfectly well 'what-for', Johnny Glenn! I didn't teach any of you boys that sort of language, and I really don't think your papa did either! Don't let me hear those words spit outta your mouth and then you won't get a palm upside the thinker!"

My mouth twists in resignation as I nod in response, and I level a scorching glare across at Scott, where he's snickering at my predicament. He only smirks widely at me as he dumps the shopping parcels on the table, and then abruptly busies himself with setting on the coffee-pot to hide from any retribution I might get away with.

"Sorry Grandma… Oh be quiet, you!" I grumble, noticing Gordon's gleeful expression.

"I'm not saying a word Johnny." My brother assures me, but I know the words that are running behind those eyes of his. I know him far too well to think otherwise.

I'm glad that Grandma is treating me like she would the others when they're misbehaving (even Scott gets on the wrong side of her temper at times) even in spite of my illness, but the back of my head is still stinging. She gives me a pointed look, tinged with amusement, and picks up the bag of laundry items that were with the rest of the groceries, before heading out of the room.

Still furiously rubbing the back of my skull through the material of my hat, I reach out for the half-drained glass of water, and gulp it down before levering myself to my feet to stumble across the room to place it in the sink.

With Scott still packed into the corner cubby where the pot is set up, I take my chances in leaning on my brother's arm to peer near-sightedly at his watch in an attempt to divine the approximate time of day, figuring he won't be able to move unexpectedly and dump me on my backside.

Okay, Four pm. Three hours sleep, not counting the time taken to trip home from the hospital, and the time I've been sitting in here… that's not bad considering how rubbish I feel. Nearly dinner time then.

I process that thought, and then I groan, realising what will be coming for me after the meal. The nebuliser treatment to clear my lungs has been extended to every five hours instead of every four, but I know that in compensation, the dosage has been upped to keep me going for the longer time period. Makes sense, but it's more annoying anyhow.

Rubbing the back of my neck to ease some of the tension curled there, I straighten up to make my way back to my seat; pleased to realise that my feet are feeling a little more steady against the cool, grey-tiled floor. I feel Gordon's eyes boring into my back as he makes a drink at the sink, but I make it to my destination without hassle, resting my head on my arms again and watching Scott incredulously as he almost inhales his drink.

"You know, Scott," I murmur, eyeing Gordon as he curses - burning his fingers while picking up his mug (pretty stupid when you take your cocoa with no milk, idiot). "You'd probably find you sleep better if you didn't drink so much goddamn coffee."

In the midst of taking another large gulp of his probably lava-temp drink, Scott raises his eyebrows at me, before lifting his mug in a mockery of a toast to rich, roasted beans. Snark. "Bad habit John. You know that."

Yeah, I do know that. Scott's completely addicted to coffee. He's been drinking it since he was almost sixteen years old, but bad habits can be broken. Just like Dad and his cigarette smoking.

Took him two years and a mountain-load of patches and nicotine tubes, but it's amazing what five kids and a butt-load of persuasion can do when we want our parent to do something.

I tell Scott as much, but he just shrugs carelessly and changes the subject.

I roll my eyes but go with it as he goes on to grin at Gordon's stubble; the kid having clearly not bothered to shave the new sprouting this morning. It doesn't look quite as odd now that Gordon's got the bright red on his head to match, but it's still quite a shock against his pale skin.

Gordon rails back at him playfully, but I realise that my drink has posed the need for some pretty necessary actions. My first and third brothers just keep on bickering, so I lever myself quietly out of my seat, and wobble my way to the door; easing myself out into the hallway that leads to the foot of the stairs in the entry, and the stand-alone toilet nearest the front door.

It takes me longer than it should do, but I eventually finish, and am just about to head back to the kitchen when I hear soft footsteps padding down the hallway.

The hall is in shadow, so he doesn't see me, but I follow the form of my immediate younger brother with my eyes as he ducks into the downstairs bathroom, not far from where I'm standing. I find that I don't particularly like the hurried steps of his movement, or the sounds of low cursing that drift in his wake. I follow him despite the distance with minimum stumbling or dizziness, and lean tiredly against the doorjamb, digging my fingers into the wood to help me to stay upright.

"Virge?" My voice cracks as I don't quite get my shallow breath around the words, and I inadvertently startle my brother from what he's doing. "Are you alright?"

Even through his surprise, my younger brother barely spares me a glance from where he's hunched over at the basin. I'm confused, but no less concerned at what he's doing, and it isn't until Virgil reaches up to the twin-sided mirror above the sink that I see what the problem is.

His right hand is pressed against his torso as he reaches up to pull the Betadine and adhesive strips down from the shelf. There is blood over his fingers, and I wince, knowing precisely what has occurred, having had needles slip and catch a vein in an arm or stomach way too many times to count.

Moving as swiftly as I can, seeing how Virgil is struggling to hold his hand over the cut and stretch upwards at the same time, I reach up with my left arm to snag the items he needs.

Though the movement makes me slightly dizzy as I flatten my feet, I turn back to the basin and flip on the faucet, running a washcloth under the cold stream of water before turning toward Virgil and poking him in the ribs to get him to move his fingers.

The thin cut across the left side of his stomach —barely the length of a finger from tip to second joint— is already clotting, but I can see the fine sheen of sweat coating my brother's pale face, and I know that he's not dealing with the sight of the blood on his skin all that well.

He never has, but it's funny because other people's blood poses no issue for him. He's a medic-in-training and everything, Virgil, but the individual hematophobia is in part linked to his OCD, and it's not just the idea of uncleanliness that gets to him, but the fact that he can't control what happens if he's injured.

He's not normally half so anxious about it, being so calm and collected on rescues, but obviously the stress he's been under recently is making him more susceptible to the effects of his worries and fears.

I'm a little concerned as more and more situational anxieties are emerging in my younger brother, as he's not been this bad for years, but I promise myself that I'm going to keep an eye on him, no matter how badly I'm feeling, or alert Scott to the situation, at least.

Virgil's hands are gripping the edge of the counter; the knuckles turned white as I lean against the sink on my good side, but I'm happy to notice that my hands are steady and sure as I work, for once.

My brother relaxes noticeably as I finally smooth the sticking plaster over the skin, and I feel him grab my shoulder to keep me steady as I go to stand upright – he's back in control and calm once again.

I smile inwardly. We might struggle at times, but we 'pull up our socks and get on with it', as Grandma says; damning the consequences and possible ramifications as we go.

A nod of the head and a flash of gratitude flipped from one to the other is the only sort of acknowledgment that either of us have for the other's issues, and I realise that I have to remember to include Virgil on my list of _Those Who Get It_. I keep forgetting, silly me.

Damn the effing drugs.

Tamping down on momentary resentment, I quirk an eyebrow at my brother, questioning wordlessly as he supports me out of the bathroom.

He nods, taking the answering of my query a step further when he adds the words, including an explanation to account for his mad dash.

"I got the insulin in, but I wasn't perched on the bed properly. No balance plus sharp implement equals scratch."

I half go to tell him that he's being a smart ass, but then I grin at his stab at self-depreciating humour instead, despite the slight embarrassment at his perceived weakness evident in his voice.

"Thanks."

"Anytime, Little Brother."

He makes a face at the name, but otherwise ignores the fact that I've once again reminded him that I'm the older one out of the two of us, not him.

It's an ongoing battle, that one, and it's one that he's never going to win, no matter how many times he manages to fish me out of the fire; physically and otherwise.

We've made it out into the hallway by now, and as if hearing our footsteps, Scott pokes his head around the corner from the kitchen; his dark hair mussed and tousled around the top and back, with the cordless phone tucked beneath his ear and his fingers in the process of un-wrapping a granola bar.

I grin. The Bottomless Pit is at it again.

"Don't let Grandma see you eating now." Virgil tells Scott, evidently thinking the same thing. "It's nearly teatime, and you know she'll have your hide if she knows you're snacking so close to the meal."

"Don't sweat it." Our brother retorts, now tapping his fingers on the casing of the phone, but not before shoving the end of the opened bar into his mouth and taking a savage bite. "You worry too much Virge."

Virgil snorts with half-suppressed laughter. "Hello Pot, have you met Kettle?"

Scott doesn't answer him, but it's less the fact that he's ignoring Virgil, and more that the person on the other end of the line has picked up; for his attention is diverted as he suddenly heads off down the hallway, bumping me affectionately with his hip as he passes, though his voice is hoarse and whispered in his conversation. I cannot hear what he's saying, which frustrates me, and the look on Virgil's face tells me that he's got no idea what he's doing either.

I frown, wondering who it is and why exactly Scott is being so secretive, but then I get pretty distracted by the fact that my feet have suddenly flown from beneath me.

Accompanied by pitching walls and simultaneously blurry vision, it doesn't exactly hurt as I flump to the carpet, because Virgil had enough grip on my elbow to slow the impact. My brother still ends up on the floor next to me though, and I'm torn between full-blown annoyance at my wobbly knees and the reason for them, and amusement at the entirely astonished look on his face, but it's the irritation that unfortunately wins out.

Ignoring (or more like tolerating) Virgil's hands suddenly running over my upper body to make sure I've not gone and injured myself, I let out a cry of utter frustration, irrational tears pricking my eyelids as my mood abruptly plummets somewhere past the floor beneath me.

It's probably a result of trekking to and from the bathroom, and all the stretching and standing I did in between, but the exhaustion I'm feeling, coupled with the emotional issues I've been trying not to think about is enough to makes the event of falling over feel much bigger than it should really be.

I cough harshly and deeply as my breath catches in my throat with my cry; sharp and choking, and I gasp as the mucus gurgles and fizzes deep in my chest. I swallow the hard knot of phlegm this time, instead of spitting it out, and though I can feel Virgil's eyes on me in disapproval (having my stomach full of sputum doesn't leave any room for food, apparently), I find I don't give any fucks about that right now.

I feel like lately I'm on an emotional see-saw, and I hate this feeling of unstable and precarious fragility; as though any thought can send me flying out into the never-nevers, or toppling off the edge of a sheer-sided cliff. This sort of situation is occurring far too frequently to be of much comfort to me, but it really appears that there's nothing I can do about it. I just hate the way it makes me feel; it's grating on my nerves, and making me feel as raw-edged as if someone had taken them and abraded the ends with sandpaper.

I pull my knees up to my chest, pushing away the vertigo, and bury my face in my arms, fighting the unpleasant urge to bawl like a child. No-one would care if I did, I've every right to fall to pieces if I want, but the truth is that I still want to hold onto my dignity and my sense of control, even though everything is falling apart.

I don't want to cry in front of Virgil either, not because I think it's shameful, but because my brother is dealing with his own overwhelming issues, and there's no way I want to burden him with mine as well, not when his episode from before shows that he's clearly still struggling to adjust.

Virgil seems to realise that, somehow, and even in spite of the way I've curled myself into an upright foetal position, he sits still and silent at my side, as though waiting for me to be able to get it together again.

I'm struck again by the knowledge that he knows at least something of how I'm feeling at the moment, and I'm forever grateful that he knows me well enough that I just want to sit and try not to sink, and he's just being here, strong as a pillar. He emulates Scott so much, and I feel overwhelmed at how much I love my siblings for the support they've given me.

It's so much closer and more real this time, somehow. The memories of the times I was sick before were more of a tooth and nail battle than the race it is this time to get to the finish line. We're pressed for time now; the avenues we have to try are so much more limited, and that thought scares me more than I'm willing to admit.

I shudder again, and have to resist the urge to punch something, biting my lip as I try not to cry, because I know how much I'm hurting them.

I can feel the panic riding on the coattails of exhaustion, as it pulls at the innards of my stomach and chest. I hate that I'm at the mercy of my feelings; tired of collapsing in a heap at the tiniest of provocations, sick of being sick and afraid of being scared.

I close my eyes and try to breathe past the constriction in my throat, my hands and shoulders shaking as I feel Virgil's fingertips rub tentatively between my shoulder blades. I don't know how he is able to keep things together so well when it comes to taking care of us, Scott either; but I've realised that I do enough of that myself, pushing things away by helping someone else with their problems.

It takes a while, but I manage to talk myself down from the ledge I'm on, hating the desperation I can sense in my own thoughts and emotions. It's been so long since the depression has reared its ugly head as badly as this, and I hate the fact that there's such a delicate balance there that affects each and every tiny movement I make.

I hate the fact it's entirely out of my hands, the effect it has on my psyche; that it makes me feel so out of control. Like the thought of falling without a parachute, it's infinitely terrifying, and that just makes me feel even worse, not knowing if or how hard I'm going to be hurt when I finally hit the ground.

Once I've calmed myself sufficiently enough that it doesn't feel like I'm going to fly apart, I raise my head, meeting Virgil's gaze unexpectedly.

He doesn't say a word, acknowledging that I don't want to talk about it, but instead gets to his feet, and holds out a hand for me. I comply, grabbing his wrist, and I smile weakly as I'm drawn up into a standing position once again.

I clasp his shoulder in gratitude, even as I lean against him, tiredness slipping through me again, thanking God that Gordon has obviously gone elsewhere, because there is no way I'd let him see how much my mood swings (for lack of a better description) are affecting me. I'm sure he knows that they're there, that I'm feeling so frightened of what's happening to me, but he far from needs to see the proof of it.

Maybe it's stupid of me to want to protect my little brothers like this, to try and shield them from the reality of what is happening to me, that I'm dying, but even in spite of the experience they've just been through with me trapped and almost suffocating on my own lungs in that hospital bed, I still want them to know that I'm still trying to fight this thing with all I've got, even though it's currently looking like it's a futile endeavour.

##

It's far from being unexpected, given my nap from earlier, but I find myself awake in the early hours of the morning.

It happens suddenly, the awakening, but I'm still surprised to find myself staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling above my bed. They've been there for the last twenty years, and they're as much a part of my life as the fact that Dad was an astronaut and that I have five brothers and a mother, a grandfather and a grandmother, and that the sky is blue.

The fact that one of my brothers died before I knew him, and that Mom has been gone for over eight years now doesn't matter. I know those facts, among many others, as well as I know my own name, and it's the same with the room where I did most of my growing up.

The exact details of it escape me at the moment, as I don't have my glasses on yet, but I've memorised every corner of my bedroom; from the dim outline of the window, then the navy blue wall straight ahead where the bureau rests against, and across to the bookshelf on the far side of the room. My old desktop computer is still perched on the desk at the end of the bed with the rickety chair, and the closet door still contains the canvas of the Orion Nebula that Virgil painted for my fifteenth birthday; shining in the pale moonlight streaming from beyond the curtains.

I imagine it all with my eyes closed; the room has been almost exactly the same since Scott moved into the attic when I was twelve. Although the spot where his bed once rested is now filled with the canvas-sheeted form of my first-ever telescope, and the packed-cardboard box of my astronomy books and star-charts, the memories of the room - both before and after still sit snug in my mind like the familiar pages of a well-thumbed book. Unchangeable and comfortable, despite the many weeks I was laid up in here, unable to get out of bed because I was so ill.

The time spent in my childhood bedroom allowed me to really think about what I wanted to do if I was to get past my illness, and in part – staying up most of the night with nausea and fever with Dad, allowed me to really want to reach for the stars and create my computer and walk the path that I'd created in my dreams. The personalisation of my room, and the freedom and ability to look out of my window and see that path in those stars was what had allowed me to realise that I could have a future if I wanted.

Thinking back on my small meltdown from earlier this evening, I know that I need to get back into that sort of mindset if I want to get anywhere, but the truth of the matter is that it's so damn bad that I struggle just to think about the next hour, let alone consider what could be coming tomorrow, or even next week, when it really comes down to it.

It's a frightening proposition, not being able to at least _plan_ what is going to happen, it's all out of my hands now, and I don't like that at all.

Musing through those recollections as I am, I'm still half-asleep really, and am very well inclined to go back there again, but I realise exactly why I've been roused to think so existentially about my room in the first place, when I hear a muffled cry, coming from what seems to be the ceiling above my head.

 _Scott_ , I think; frowning as I rub my eyes and slowly drag myself into a seated position, using the headboard the way the nurses taught me. I stand up slowly, jamming my feet into my slippers and yanking the blanket off my bed to ward against the midnight air, before shuffling across the room with the intention of going to my brother's room to sort him out.

He'd seemed fine earlier, all but ignoring my question about who he had been speaking to on the phone. He'd seemed gleeful almost afterwards, sharing a secretive, nearly scheming look with Dad that none of the rest of us seemed to understand. He'd ribbed Alan about his new retainer, and then consoled the kid when he realised how much Al's mouth was hurting after the wire had been tightened, and had even gone so far as to challenge Gordon to a game of Rummy after the meal, which having the Tracy Twist rules as it did, went for a good two hours longer than any game a normal person would've played.

I don't know what the outcome of that had turned out to be, but I know that it had probably been something Gordy hadn't liked, judging from the outraged yelp that had resulted from Scott's teasing when they'd finally called it quits not long after eight.

It takes me much longer than I initially anticipated, but I finally get to the top of the attic stairs; the moonlight filtering through the skylight in the ceiling to lend the floorboards an almost ethereal glow. It also allows me to find my way to Scott's bedroom door without worry of falling ass over tea-kettle, a significant plus in my mind, seeing as I really shouldn't be doing this on my own in the first place.

I don't bother knocking on the door, because I can still hear the whimpering sounds of Scott's nightmares through the wood, so I push it quietly open, and shuffle my sock-clad way over to his bed, glad for once that my only older brother is a neat-freak and doesn't leave stuff lying about on the ground like Gordon and Alan. Their room is an accident waiting to happen.

Stopping at the side of Scott's bed, I can see that he must have fallen asleep reading, because the book by Tom Wolfe: _The Right Stuff_ , is perched haphazardly on the edge of the mattress, the blankets tangled around my brother's rigidly-shifting form in the lamplight. The sloping ceiling is low enough that I have to be careful not to hit my head as I stand up from picking up his book, and I study Scott's face as I place the novel on his bedside table.

I've never gotten over how well Scott manages to hide his worries and insecurities from the rest of us; how he is able to tamp everything down behind the impenetrable mask he's always managed to keep in place. I'd blame his Air Force training for it, if not for the fact that this is how Scott has always been; even before the accident. It's just more amplified than it otherwise would've been, after he had been trapped in the avalanche with Mom and Alan.

He always looks so much younger and more exposed when he sleeps, and the wall he builds during the day clearly gets broken down at night, which clearly explains the nightmares that have been continuing since the attack on Thunderbird Five.

I remember listening to him yell in his sleep back at home, and the reality of knowing that he was carrying around his pistol to protect himself in some obscure way sort of terrified me, but I had been too exhausted to get up out of bed and go to him. Dad's room is on the other side of the house, both in the villa and here, and despite the fact that I'm still sick, I'm really the only one who is close enough to be able to hear him and do something to help.

I reach down to gently shake Scott's shoulder, leaning heavily on the bed as my legs threaten to give out after the hike up the attic stairs. Scott snaps instantly awake, grabbing my wrist hard enough that I know I'll have a bruise, his eyes wide and wild from the nightmare I know I've woken him from.

"John?" He asks, squinting at me in confusion; his expression vulnerable and weary all at once.

His hair is matted and damp from the tossing and turning he's done, and he runs a hand wearily through it as he recognises me, releasing my arm and slumping back onto the pillows with his eyes firmly closed, as if to block out the terrors I know are haunting him. I want to help him get rid of them, but I have no idea of what they are, so I'm at a loss at how to help.

"What are you doing up here? Did I wake you up?" He sounds unbearably guilty, and I fight the urge to smack him senseless.

"You were having a nightmare Scott. I came up here because you didn't sound like you were enjoying yourself." I say, dryly, ignoring the apologetic look in his eyes, knowing that I _will_ end up getting mad if I allow myself to acknowledge his idiocy.

"You shouldn't have come up the stairs," He frowns, tugging me down onto the bed as he shifts towards the wall to make room. "You could've hurt yourself."

I sigh in resignation, knowing what he's trying to do, and having no intention of letting him accomplish it. Not this time. "I didn't and I'm fine, and we're talking about you Scooter, so could you try not to take evasive action? It's me. The kids aren't going to hear about anything unless you want me to tell them, so can you answer me one question. Please?"

Scott's eyes are more violet than blue in the lamp light, and the tousled look of the lengthening hair around his face makes him seem so much more vulnerable than he has for a long time. The muscles along his jaw tighten, and I can see that there are cracks appearing in his façade of impenetrability that he almost never allows during his waking hours, appearing as though something is pushing from the other side. I feel like I'm taking advantage of the barely-awake state of mind my brother is in, but I see the almost relieved look on his face, and I wonder if this is what he's needed this entire time.

He nods, and I ask him what's bothering him; knowing that somehow, this time I'm going to get a proper answer.

He begins to speak, and the words are as quiet and raw as anything I've ever heard come out of his mouth. Not even the memory of him crying as he told me the news about the secondary cancer was quite as significant as this. I grip his shoulder tightly and he smiles grimly at me in response, his eyes sad.

"I'm just… scared, John. I thought for so long that this was all over for you, that when Dad said that when you reached the five-year mark without having a relapse, you were considered cured. I'd squared all of those memories of you being so sick into this dusty, locked box in my head, and just seeing you there in that bed, it terrified me."

I can see something in Scott's eyes that pleads me to not interrupt, that tells me if I am to break his stride now he's gathered up the courage to tell me what he's feeling, that I'll never get it out of him.

I nod, gesturing for him to continue in what he's saying, settling onto the bed beside him and smiling affectionately as he unconsciously wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulling the blanket up over my chest like he did to Gordon and Alan when they were small.

"I thought that I'd gotten it all out of my system when I did this…" He runs his fingers over the cast on his hand, "but I've come to realise that it's not just the kids and Dad and your health and Virgil's that's worrying me, it's something else, and I've sat on it for so long I'm not exactly sure how to explain it."

Scott suddenly hesitates, twisting his blanket in his hand, and I'm not sure whether I should prompt him or not, afraid that if I speak I'm going to derail whatever his train of thought is, and prevent him saying what he feels he needs to.

I needn't have worried though, because he takes a deep breath, as though he's about to plunge into icy water.

"What did you feel when we were up on 'Five, John? And you realised that we probably wouldn't be coming home, that we were most likely going to die up there?"

I look at him in confusion, trying to work out where he is coming from; my brain struggling through the hazy memories caused by concussion and pain, sticking with the conclusion that it's not just the thought that we were going to die that he is worried about, but something else, something that I should probably know but just can't remember.

Scott doesn't seem to be expecting an answer though, because he powers on doggedly, his voice a tired drone against the silence of midnight, and the beating of our hearts.

"If you're thinking that we'd be trapped up there, dead and isolated, with no way out, and no chance of saving ourselves or each other, then that's what I was feeling, and it terrified me John. It's not that we had to be rescued by Alan, it's not that at all. I'm so proud of what he and the kids did, I can't express it in words. It's that I couldn't save us. I'm responsible for all of you, and I was trapped in something that I couldn't fix. I couldn't do anything. I couldn't do anything to save my family like I wasn't able to save Tom and Paul."


	4. The Things We Cannot Change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no, I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Also, in addition, any references to medical information is only found on the web, and any errors and discrepancies in the items used are purely my own.

Scott looks at his hands, pausing to gather his nerve again, I have a sudden, complete flash of understanding, and a pang of sympathy as to why he is still so knotted up over the incident on 'Five.

The names in particular are a dead giveaway; even with the secrecy about the mission Scott'd been on when he got shot down in Afghanistan four years ago. We'd never met the two men, whose lives had been taken in that incident, but Scott had regularly sent letters from the McConnell Air Base where he'd been stationed at the time, and accompanying one of the first we'd received, was a photo of the three of them standing in their flight suits in front of the mess building.

Tom Clarkson and Paul Hanley had been his co-pilot and navigator respectively. The former was a twenty-seven-year-old Ivy League graduate that hailed from California, and the latter, one of Scott's age-mates from the Reserve Officer Training Corps Program, back from when he was still at Yale.

All three men had apparently been remarkably close, but then the two older men had died in the incident that had nearly cost Scott his life, and then almost permanently crippled his left leg, leaving him with a long-standing issue with aircraft of any kind. He'd hidden it well in front of Virgil and the kids, but Dad and I knew of the panic attacks that he'd endured for a long time afterwards. I think that's one of the few times I've truly been afraid for my brother's wellbeing.

It took a long time for Scott to get past that experience, but judging from his most recent response, (and the times I've seen him with his revolver recently), he's obviously holding onto something from those long-suppressed memories that is rather significant.

While I've been ruminating, Scott appears to have gathered himself into something resembling readiness, because when I move my eyes to meet his gaze again, he smiles weakly and rubs the base of his fingers firmly from where they protrude from beneath the cast. His hand must be bothering him again. I swear he's going to get arthritis badly by the time he's Dad's age if he keeps breaking the bones in that hand, not that the first time was his fault, really.

His violet eyes are burning brightly with something that I can't identify quite yet, but it appears that it's going to be a long time in coming, because without warning, Scott turns on his side and buries his face in his pillow, harsh sobs suddenly wracking his frame as the seemingly cathartic effect of speaking the names of his fallen friends lets loose a deluge of emotion.

I'm obviously startled, because this is the second time in a week I've seen my brother cry like this, so there's a bit of hesitation on my part as I wrap my arm around his shoulders, because I am really not the sort of person to actively offer physical comfort. If the need arises though, I will push aside my own awkwardness for the sake of someone I love, and though I might not often admit it, I do truly love each and every one of my brothers.

I'm not really sure how I can go about comforting him however, because what can you say to someone who's lost their friends to something you can never understand?

I can understand the loss bit, in part, but not the situation it occurred in. We all can because of what happened with Mom, but I didn't know either of Scott's comrades, and nor do I know what it's like in a warzone. What my brother went through, first having been trapped in the downed jet, and then tortured and taunted continuously for almost three weeks, it's unimaginable, and it's really no surprise that my brother has at least some remaining issues.

It was why he was discharged ultimately from the 'Force, although he and Dad played upon his left leg being too badly injured for him to stay in service. It means that he has to pretend to favour it when he's out in public, due to his high profile status with Tracy Aeronautics, which sucks on a personal basis, (because Scott hates having to play the part of 'War Veteran'), but it's a good cover for IR, and that's just the way it is. He grins and bears it, Scott, and I'm proud of him, much as it's a little un-manly to admit it at times. He knows it and wouldn't want pity, and nor does he like talking about things that make him feel weak, much as this current situation proves.

He doesn't get the chance that he needs to explain further though, much as it appears that he is intending to, because he's interrupted by the sudden, loud pounding of feet up the stairs.

I've got a split second to allow for the annoyance of Scott's continuity of speech getting disrupted, along with a pang of jealousy for the swiftness of movement that the person has for themselves, before the door is flung open so roughly that it bounces off the wall behind it.

Scott is already vaulting over my legs and zipping across the room, even as Alan bursts in, red-faced and totally out of breath from his obvious sprint up the stairs.

"Scott," he pants, leaning heavily against the doorjamb, his pyjama bottoms riding low on his hips, and his dark grey t-shirt (an old one of Gordon's, weirdly enough; two sizes too big) hanging off of his left shoulder. "Virge—"

I furrow my brow, a little confused and worried at the same time. I'd ask 'what's the matter?' but Scott, already 'there' in terms of being all thinky, has slotted the pieces together so much more quickly than I have.

When he asks Alan for clarification, the kid blurts out something that confuses me even more, not mentioning the almost-hysteria lacing my younger brother's tone. "He won't wake up!"

It must be the time of night, but I'm sort of lost as to why they're worried about the guy being asleep, because not only is it –I look at the clock on the nightstand– one in the morning, (God, I'm going to be exhausted for my radiotherapy tomorrow), but also that Virgil sleeps like a log, and it's only the proximity of the speaker for the klaxon that wakes him for the midnight calls at all.

I can't see right now what the fuss is about, but I can feel a distinct sense of unease in my gut that means I should know the significance of Alan's statement, but I haven't quite gotten around to connecting the dots, not as yet anyway.

It's too late to ask for clarification though, because both Alan and Scott have taken off down the attic stairs, leaving me staring nonplussed at the darkened landing where my youngest brother had been standing only a second ago. Thanks for leaving me behind guys, really. I appreciate it.

My back has stiffened again in the short time I've been sitting here; the exertion of climbing up the stairs in my exhausted state stretching the overtaxed muscles and seizing up the area around the top of my pelvis. Because of the time it takes me to stretch out the kinks, it's at least three minutes until I'm able to get to my feet and shuffle across the room.

I know that I probably shouldn't try to descend the stairs alone; the bouts of vertigo I've been experiencing as a result of the weakness from the infection pose too much risk of an accident if I am on an uneven surface, like particularly steep attic steps. I do it anyway, however, because although I don't know why my brothers have freaked out yet, I can still feel this nagging annoyance in the back of my mind that tells me that I should know. It's irritating.

It's not until I've carefully picked my way down the short corridor to the top of the stairs, that I realise exactly what that reason is. My concentration snaps as it bursts into my brain, and in my distraction, my right foot slips sideways in my slipper on the floorboards. My sense of equilibrium throws me off balance as I try to compensate for the shift in weight, and I smack heavily into the wall with my bad side as I feel my ankle twist painfully beneath me.

A sharp breath whistles through my teeth at the tearing of overly-stretched ligaments, combining with that of newly-forming bruises. I let out an inarticulate groan as I thump the floor for the second time within six hours, and close my eyes in a mixture of pain and desperation as I hold my throbbing ankle, ignoring the wave of protest that emanates from my lower spine from the impact.

I'm falling apart at the seams. How flipping wonderful.

I find it ironic that only ten minutes ago, Scott told me that I shouldn't have climbed the stairs, despite my safe arrival, but now of course, on the way back, I've taken a tumble. Figures.

I desperately need to get to Virgil, (because low blood sugars while a diabetic is sleeping is bad; a major understatement to be utterly frank) but with no-one around to help me take it easy the rest of the way, and with an ankle that I can already feel beginning to swell beneath my questing fingers, I know that I'm rather stuck for the time being.

I grit my teeth, refusing to sit here and wait while my brother is in trouble, despite the fact that even if I manage to get down to the ground level before all the chaos is over, I'll only be in the way. Makes me feel pretty useless, if I'm being truthful, and if there's one thing that I hate, it's being unable to do things on my own and do anything for the people I care about.

Sighing, and knowing that it's probably going to be all for nothing, when one of them inevitably realise they've left me up here, I nevertheless pull the sock off of my left foot, and pull it onto my injured one to give it a bit of padding until I can get it strapped up properly. The bare skin on my left foot will hopefully allow for a bit of friction as I go down, so I don't end up on my ass again.

Biting my lip, I shuffle over to the left side of the staircase, putting my hand out and using the railing to pull myself painfully to my feet. The ankle takes my weight, but protests heavily at the burden, sending zinging lines of heat shooting up towards my knee. I've at least mildly sprained it, that much is clear, which is going to hamper my movement even more (oh, goody), but at least it's not broken. That would _really_ make me happy.

I don't make it much further than two steps down, when a voice comes from somewhere down near the darkness at the landing to the second floor.

"John Glenn Tracy, what on earth do you think you're doing?"

The person speaks with a mixture of incredulity and concern, and I have to admit that I probably look quite a sight; one foot un-socked, clinging to the embedded wood along the wall to support my weight against my shaking legs. I peer near-sightedly towards their indistinct form, and I hazard a guess at it being either Dad or Scott; their voices sound incredibly similar at times.

My mental half-question is answered as whoever-it-is hurries up the last eight or nine steps towards me, and I grin sheepishly at my father, even as my rising concern for Virgil makes my blood drain from my face as I remember.

"Dad," I croak, grabbing his sleeve as he goes to tuck his arm behind my back, panic making my voice break. "Is Virgil okay? Scott and Alan—"

"John." Dad turns my face to look at his, and swallow heavily as I see the concern in his eyes, but I'm unsure at whom it is directed.

"Your brother will be fine, I promise. His levels dropped rather dramatically, but Scott has it well in hand. Alan's just a little bit freaked out at the moment. The whole thing probably happened because Virgil's body still isn't quite settled into having less insulin being produced, and is still creating spurts of it. Remember the doctor's explanation of the 'Honeymoon Period'?

I nod, the blurry memories ghosting along the edges of my mind. The Honeymoon Period is the months-long stretch of time that Virgil's pancreas might still be producing little bits of insulin, which would mess up his numbers. That state apparently stops eventually, and then the body has to change again to accommodate for none of the hormone being secreted at all.

It's said to be one of the most difficult parts of the diagnosis, because at times a person would apparently feel quite normal but utterly horrible at others. I know that my brother won't want the sympathy, much the same as I don't want it for my illness, but I feel it anyway, and an immense pride at the strength Virgil is showing in the face of something so incredibly life-changing. He only got officially discharged from being an outpatient two days before me, but if his blood sugar levels are fluctuating so continuously, then I can't help but worry that he's going to end up right up back in there again.

My father helps me safely down the stairs, glancing frowningly at my limping gait, but not saying anything. Yet. "Virgil actually sent me up here to get you; seems he was pretty annoyed that Scott left you behind in the first place."

I crack a grin at that, knowing the power of Virgil's glares only too well, but I still won't be entirely satisfied he's okay until I can see him for myself.

My foot is really hurting me now, and I guess it's showing on my face, because once we've made our way down the hallway, Dad steers me into my bedroom, silently gesturing me to explain why I've got my socks on the way I do. I grin sheepishly, and remove them slowly, only to wince as the injured muscles pull against each other. _Owww._

Dad switched the light in on our way in, so there's nothing to conceal the angry red and slightly purple colour of pre-bruising around the ankle bone. He prods lightly at the discolouration, and I bite back a curse as his fingers press against the most painful part of the foot, pulling my leg lengthwise across the side of the bed from where I'm reclined, ordering me to roll it in a slow circle, to test the range of movement.

I'm able to do it, but I'm gritting my teeth the entire time, as the tightened ligaments complain. I snort to myself as Dad comments on the fact that I've got a bruise. I've got them everywhere I bump myself, first and foremost as an effect from the thrombocytopenia, but also because of the numerous IV lines I've been stuck with over the past three weeks. With the blood condition, they're taking much longer than usual to heal. I look and feel like a junkie both; with the tiny pinprick bruises on my arms, and then with how dozy I am on medication lately. Not the best state of being, I can tell you.

Dad went walkabout when I wasn't looking apparently, because when I look up again, he's reappeared with a bag of frozen peas, wrapped in a towel, and an ace bandage.

I scowl at him slightly, shaking my head, because despite his assurances I still want to see Virgil, but he shakes his head at me, setting both items down on the bed, perching on the mattress beside my foot.

"You're staying off of it John, at least until morning. And don't you dare try and tell me its morning now, because I just want to point out that the sun is not up yet, and that is what the entire world for centuries now has classed as morning."

Dammit. Dad knows me far too well for me to be able to trip him up with mere technicalities.

I nod at him, reluctantly accepting the fact; knowing that I'll have to pester Virgil when I get up in the morning, but at the moment I'm happy that Dad's here at least, assuring me that he's alright. Virgil has to be, if Dad is ribbing me over my numerous idiosyncrasies.

It put me in mind again of the times when I was younger, and we'd had these sorts of conversations all the time; having arguments about things with two extremely different, but both equally plausible attributes. It comforts me in some strange way that despite the fact that this battle is different, there's enough familiarity in our relationship that we can converse like this.

We might be going about this battle a different way, but then again, compared to others fighting the kind of cancer I have, my case had been different from the start.

I'd had one 'minor' relapse about three months following the conclusion of my initial nine-month battle, but that had been addressed with an eight-week course of radiation therapy, to get rid of the small cluster of infected nodes beneath my jawline that Dr Kingston had found in the first of the two-month follow-up checks following the announcement of my remission.

Dad'd moved up to Boston to live near the college, and had done face-to-face work with his employees at the burgeoning TA branch there, so I hadn't been alone that time either.

That was great, as I'd decided that I wanted to keep going on with my studies while getting the treatment, instead of moving all the way back to Lawrence and missing out on classes when I'd put so much effort into my early graduation.

That had been a considerable comfort to me, being able to have him there, seeing as Sherry had been recuperating from her accident at around the same time. She'd not been around for moral support as much as she'd wanted to, and I'd understood that, but it still hurt that I'd not been around for her either, much like this time.

I need to call her tomorrow and remind her again to take enough photos for me to wallpaper my room. Perhaps I can get Scott or Dad to go and set up a video link so I can watch her marry Sky, her fiancé. I'm really desperate not to miss it.

I can tell that Dad has been watching me the entire time I've been thinking, and I'm not sure, because I'm getting rapidly sleepy (damn, he's right again in his non-speaky inflection way), but it looks like he knows what I'm thinking about.

He doesn't give me any clues, as he puts the fastener on the bandage, now wrapped firmly around my ankle, but I can see, through sleepy eyes, that he's definitely thinking about something of interest as he places the frozen package on my aching foot.

I don't bother asking him though, both because I'm beginning to drop off just sitting here, and I know that he's almost as exhausted as I am, and probably isn't collected enough to survive any interrogation I can be bothered to dredge up. I'll let him sleep, and I'll bug Scott about his feelings and his phone call again tomorrow. It's a little brother's right to be annoying, after all.

I feel Dad pull the blankets over me again as my eyes close of their own accord, feel him pull my hat down over my forehead just that little bit more, and I smile sleepily, oddly comforted despite the tangle of emotions I can feel, ever-present inside me; worry at Scott and his wall, Virgil and his stress, and Gordon and Alan, and their feelings of inadequacy. I'll deal with them in the morning.

There's always tomorrow, no matter how much it might feel like there's not at times. I might not get too many tomorrows, the way I'm going, but the least I can do is have faith that my family will, at least.


	5. Warmth and Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no, I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Also, in addition, any references to medical information is only found on the web, and any errors and discrepancies in the items used are purely my own.

I'm woken a few hours later by someone thrashing beside me, and low muttering in my ear.

Light from the pre-dawn sky spears into my eyes as I open them, groping blindly for whomever it is whimpering beneath their breath. Even as I bury my head in my pillow to block out the world, I roll to the side in order to investigate. I'm brought to an unexpected halt in my half-thought-out movement as I literally smack into the person sprawled out beside me. They let out a cry of pain and surprise as they're shocked awake by the impact.

I lift my head wearily and peer through the dim room, discovering that it's Virgil; staring at me sleepy and bemused, with his hair all mussed and sweaty from the pillow.

Even as I rub my little brother's shoulder and wait for him to get over the post-waking confusion, I throw a glance at the alarm clock perched on the nightstand, and groan in complete annoyance.

It's only 5am.

Scrunching my eyes up in resignation, I rub them furiously and peer across to where Virgil is curled up into a ball now, his mouth screwed into a grimace and his fingers rubbing his temples.

"How low were you?" I ask; torn between the knowledge that he probably doesn't want to share, but needing to know for my own peace of mind at the same time. Virgil stares at me wearily; as usual not quite aware this soon after waking.

He does the same thing to me often enough, and obviously he feels he has to acknowledge it, because he swallows against the gritty remnants of sleep in his own throat to answer, even though I should probably be asking him about the nightmare that brought him out of slumber.

"Seventy three." Virgil says hoarsely, and I feel a flash of worry, because that's close to the absolute lowest a diabetic should go. "I'm lucky that Alan had a nightmare and wanted to crawl in with me. Dad reckons I need to set an alarm for checks every few hours, because it looks like I'm like Grandpa and have more lows than highs." Virgil pulls his pillow against his chest and bites his lip. I have to resist the urge to tug it out from between his teeth. Not really my place to do that.

He swallows harshly. "I'd be in a coma right now if it wasn't for Al. Second time in two months I've been saved by my little brother. Stupid, huh?" he chokes a little and kneads his fingers into his forehead, the fright radiating from him and making Virgil appear so much younger than his twenty years. "Dad's gonna take me to the endocrinologist I've been set up with in town later, but this is just… wrong, and I don't like it." He shakes his head and shudders, and I think I can guess what his nightmare was about.

I gather him close to my chest, unable to find the right words to vocalise what is in my head right now, what I want to say to my little brother. I have the same terrors now, though thankfully they wear off within a few hours of waking -that's if I remember them at all. I've been through this sort of thing before though, and I'm used to those feelings. Virgil isn't and I'd rather not tell him that right now so he can have his moment of fear and fright. He's dealing with just as much as me, if not more.

Huh. Looks like it's my turn to be the strong brother tonight, rather than the falling-in-a-heap-one I was earlier. First Scott and now Virgil. Suits me fine, I guess, but I'll likely pay for it later.

My brother's breathing against my shoulder is warm and comforting, and not completely awake myself, I manage to drift off to sleep again, not feeling useless or anything. It's good.

##

The next time I open my eyes; I throw up, which isn't so great.

Sure. That's really what I want to do first thing in the morning. Thanks Universe. Really. There is only so much of the stench of vomit a room can take, and I think mine has pretty much reached its quota, what with my nausea yesterday when I got out of the shower before I sat down for dinner.

Lying on my side, I inhale sharply and I barely have my eyes open before I'm gasping and coughing; feeling like an elephant is sitting on my torso, even as the vomit spatters across my chest and onto the floor. Urgh. My lungs feel like they're seizing up beneath my breastbone and I struggle to breathe through the wracking coughs.

I'm obviously rather occupied, so it's really no surprise that I startle when arms suddenly slide behind my shoulders and pull me upright in the bed so my chest isn't crushed against the mattress.

I'm guessing that my 'rescuer' is Virgil, if I'm to go by his early-morning visit to me. I vaguely remember talking to him and reassuring myself that he was alright, but my eyes are streaming too much to be able to recall it clearly.

What also doesn't help is that my lungs seem determined to spit out as much vile green phlegm as they possibly can, mixed with bile that is the remains of baked beans and toast – the only thing I felt well enough to stomach last night. Blech.

I know that my face has turned red (I can feel the heat in my cheeks) and it's not until there's a glass nudging at my lips that I can calm my gagging enough to take small sips of water. My hands are shaking as I grip it tightly, and I have a sinking feeling in my gut because I know that I'm going to be miserable all day, no matter what happens. It's always the way whenever I start the morning like this.

When my vision finally clears enough to see my fuzzy surroundings, I discover that it's Virgil who's perched next to me on the mattress still, having obviously not bothered heading back to his own bed after I'd conked out. Both things, as well as my own pyjamas and bedding, are covered sour-smelling vomit, and I close my eyes and exhale slowly through my nose as I try not to hurl again.

Remembering all of a sudden the comparative drama from last night, and our almost-conversation about his fears, I grab Virgil's wrist and pull him closer so he's within my short-sighted range. It's not entirely clear, my sight, even at this close distance, but it's good enough to see that though he's still slightly pale (he seems to be fairly often lately, with the wild swings his levels are doing) right now, Virgil doesn't seem to be showing any ill effects from his middle-of-the-night bout of hypoglycaemia.

He tolerates my visual scan without comment or complaint as he peels the soiled blankets away from me, before putting his hand on my forehead and feeling for fever. I know I've got one; I have constantly because of what it is I'm fighting, but they have to be careful with keeping an eye on everything, because as it's been proven, I can't accurately tell whether or not I'm under the weather.

I can feel the warning of the imminent emergence of yesterday's mostly-unresolved headache throbbing behind my eyes, a warning to take it easy this morning, or else I'll spend the rest of the day in misery.

I push the blankets off of my feet properly, to find that the wrapped bag of peas is now gone, and there's a lighter support brace on my foot instead of the ace bandage; a clear sign that I didn't do too much damage to my ankle last night. Virgil probably swapped it over when he came in last night. That's both a relief and a bit of a glow in today's dark tunnel of ill-health and oppressiveness. It also makes me laugh, because nice caring brother being confronted by my most-likely smelly feet.

I reach out and grab my glasses from where Dad put them on the bedside table last night; the world coming into much sharper focus as I place them on the bridge of my nose. As I slowly swing my feet away from the edge of the bed, using an unsoiled patch of blanket to wipe my mouth. I take one last sip of the water, pulling my smelly, sweaty shirt away from my chest and laboriously pull myself to my feet, glad I'm not going to tread in the mess that's on the other side of the bed.

Obviously satisfied that I'm okay, Virgil has scooped up his dirty bedclothes and vanished within the last couple of seconds, without a word, leaving me leaning against the edge of the bedside table with a distinct sense of unease, and I don't think it's just the remnants of the disgusting nausea.

I'm not entirely sure what's causing it; could be just because of the whole issue of me being ill, and all the convoluted emotions that come with it, but it may also be the way I'm feeling, both physically and psychically. I rub my aching forehead and shrug to myself. I've become used to the current circumstances, but there are times (and they are becoming more frequent lately) where it just suddenly hits me.

Shrugging again to dislodge those emotions, I grab a fresh pyjama shirt and a sweater to go on top of it and meander off to the bathroom to change, trying to ignore the throbbing sensation in the back of my brain.

##

After more than an adequate amount of time allowed for that distinctly not-pleasant bit of necessity (certain regions are still tender after the catheter's removal, especially in the morning), and a quick swipe with a face-washer to rid myself of the choking smell of vomit, I make my way back into my bedroom with a rag, a bottle of strong Ajax cleaner and the intention of getting rid of the mess I left behind on the floorboards.

I'm annoyed to realise that Dad is the one on his hands and knees cleaning up the disgusting puddle in the middle of my bedroom floor. Just one more thing that they think I can't do myself.

My fingers tighten around the bottle and rag, and I lean against the wall as I try to contain my irrational temper, a response to the dizziness spinning around in my head, made worse by the fact I've not eaten, and that I've moved too much in a short space of time.

I drop the cloth carelessly on the floor and in a fit of temper I throw the half-bottle of cleaning solution hard across the room. It (rather unsatisfactorily) doesn't break as it hits the wall; the loud bang only serves to make my father jump and curse violently beneath his breath as he smacks his head on the side of the bed.

Despite my heaving chest and blazing cheeks, the fire dims instantly into rueful sheepishness as Dad emerges from the other side of the bed with his bucket, squinting a little as he rubs the side of his head.

He peers bemusedly at me as I slump against the wall again, the blinky heaviness in my achy head overriding the embarrassment of my previous actions. Dammit that hurts.

"John? What on earth was that about?"

I find that I can't look at Dad, don't want him seeing my face and knowing that I'm feeling both useless and lonely in equal measure. The reason for the uselessness if fairly obvious, but the loneliness is a bit weirder, because I'm literally surrounded by people. I shrug, muttering something about 'just a moment' that I don't understand, and trail Dad out of the room and towards the landing, still limping on my aching ankle.

##

I go more slowly down the stairs than him, more so than usual anyway, to prevent a repeat of yesterday's adventure, but also to avoid sloshing the vague feeling of nausea too badly.

I think it's time to hunt down some Ibuprofen for both my foot and my head, before things combine to become completely unbearable, if they aren't getting there already. I can feel that things are going to rapidly get worse fast, and I breathe in in the face of the increasing inevitability, sitting down on the bottom of the stairs to try and calm the spinning in my head from before.

Trouble is though, that now I've sat down I can't seem to find the motivation to get back up again. Too damn tired and headachy, is what I am. That and I'm literally stiff as a board from my fall against the risers last night.

It's just too much to face the day when all you want to do is crawl back into bed and block everything out. I won't though. Because the one thing I am not is a quitter. Even in the face of measurements, pills, shots and pneumonia treatments, as well as being injected with substances that are probably going to only make me tired and even more nauseous. Oh the joy of being a cancer patient.

Yup, that was sarcasm. I still have my sense of humour, I still have fight in me, and nope, though I might be looking down that track, I will not go and throw myself a pity party.

"And there I almost thought that you were entirely sane, Johnny."

I have to admit that I jump a little at the new person, because obviously I didn't realise that I said that last sentence out loud. I blink through my exhaustion and raise an eyebrow at Alan and his way-too-cheerful-this-morning voice.

"This coming from the guy who natters to himself when he's planning something dastardly, out loud and completely unknowingly? Jeez Al, you would've completely walked into that one if I'd decided to actually rub it in."

"Yeah," Alan says, conversationally. "But you won't, because you have to believe me when I say that a light breeze could probably knock you over right now." He peers at me closely. "Seriously John, do you feel okay? You look like crap." Annoyance rises suddenly at his comment. Subtlety a la Alan.

I grunt, rubbing the back of my neck as the tension curled there begins to tighten further with the intensifying of my headache.

Brothers. Little ones at that. Yeurgh. I don't want them to treat me like glass, but sensitivity doesn't really go awry sometimes.

I'm a fucking cancer patient, Stage-Three-and-a-flipping-Half. Course I look like crap. I feel it too. And here comes the lightning-burst headache, like someone's cracked a baseball bat at the back of my head. I bite back a moan. Wonderful.

"That's just great Alan." I snap, because the kid is suddenly talking about breakfast, which I can't bear the thought of right this second; I'm far too nauseous. "Can you do something constructive, like say, getting Dad or Scott for me? I need a hand up from here; my head is going to split, and there's no way a runt like you is gonna get anywhere, even if you were to offer to help."

I can feel the burn of Alan's gaze as he stares at me, gobsmacked, and I feel a little bad for snapping at him and insulting him in the same sentence, but even the most even-tempered person will have issues remaining civil when their head is splitting along its edges and seams.

He must be able to see that I'm damn-well sore.

I try throwing Alan an approximation of an apologetic look, but I don't think it works, because the suddenness of the pretty-much migraine has taken me completely by surprise. I breathe sharply through my nose and manage to remind myself how to stay upright.

I feel Alan's hand on my shoulder, rubbing it firmly, before he murmurs something considerately quiet, along the lines of pills and a drink of water. It sounds like utter heaven to me right now, so I just nod tentatively and wait for the aforementioned items to be brought. I just don't have the motivation or energy required to make a move on my own at the moment, and I hate it.

A cool hand suddenly rests on my forehead where it's resting in the hollow of my folded arms, and I lean into it reflexively; groaning miserably as my head lets off a particularly savage throb.

There's sweat beading near my non-existent hairline, and I'm rapidly feeling worse. Guess I'm less over this damn infection than I thought.

The proffered painkillers take a long while to begin to work their magic, but I finally feel less like there's a gong vibrating in my brain, and am able to raise my head enough to finish off my second glass of water for the day in slow sips. At least I won't get dehydrated, I suppose. That's something.

I breathe in slowly, trying to will the spinning in my head to stop so I can get my bearings.

I go to rise, using the banister on my left to drag myself to my feet, and an arm slips its way around my waist, and helps hold my weight a little bit so I can get my trembling legs underneath me.

I just hate how weak I am at the moment, even as I mutter a half-blinded thanks to my helper. It's so strange to realise that it was only a month or so ago that I thought that I was only suffering from a sleepless night. Its funny how both looks and feelings can be so deceiving, and how things can change so dramatically in the shortest amount of time. Either that or I just hadn't realised quite how sick I really was at the time.

The pain in my head is still pretty overwhelming, so I keep my eyes almost totally shut, as I'm steered through the living room and into the kitchen, where I'm deposited by my anonymous helpers, at the table.

Letting out an involuntary groan at the vertigo that comes from the movement, I bury my face back into my pyjama sleeves and try not to start myself off on a coughing fit. Today is really not going well at all.

And I have radiotherapy in a couple of hours, which means getting dressed and moving and car trips and needles…

How did I forget about that? Oh wonderful.


	6. Walking in the Sunshine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no, I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Also, in addition, any references to medical information is only found on the web, and any errors and discrepancies in the items used are purely my own.

It's fairly late by the time I've gotten up the force of will to eat without wanting to be sick.

Dad, Gordon and Alan have already eaten, so Virgil and Scott were the ones who helped me into the kitchen from the stairs. I nodded my thanks to them when I realised that they'd waited to see if I wanted to eat before doing so themselves. God bless my brothers.

Five minutes later though, I'm glaring at the half-full bowl of oats that sits in front of me; my chin propped up on my arms and my brain still thudding uncomfortably beneath the almost-pleasant fog of painkillers, and my ankle aching beneath its protective wrapping.

I sort of wish that if I stare at it hard enough, it might just vanish and reappear magically in my stomach, and then I won't have to expend my energy on getting it in there. Not that I actually feel like eating it in the first place, but the unfortunate reality is that if I want to get any sort of weight on my skinny frame without being re-admitted, I have to somehow convince myself to actually indulge in the actions needed to do so.

A trio of open-topped pill containers suddenly appear at my elbow, and I roll my eyes as my older brother places yet another glass of water wordlessly beside them.

The sheer amount of pills that are there are mind-boggling, around four or five to each container, and each a particularly vivid colour on their own. The Oprelvekin is for the low platelets, to assist in the clotting that my body can't do at the moment from the blood condition, and the Prednisone (despite being a slight immunosuppressant), is to apparently help reduce the swelling from the surgery and the severity of my migraines, which seem to be increasing in frequency since I woke up in the ICU. The others are a mix of supplements and other drugs; like iron pills and Vitamin C and D capsules, to try and keep my body somewhat in sync, even with the decreased nutrition I've been getting since I began the salvage therapy.

Dr Kingston and the dietician that developed my meal plan have said that I need to focus on as many foods with carbohydrates in them as I can, and the whole concept of eating the regulatory amount of fruit and vegetables has literally gone out of the window.

If I didn't feel so sick I'd laugh at the fact I could eat as much crappy food as I wanted and get away with it. As it is, I don't, and the porridge looks rather like a bowl-full of cardboard for all the fact it's usually one of my favourite foods to eat.

I finally manage to choke down the remains of the bowl of cereal, and thanks to the anti-nausea pill, it doesn't feel like it's going to come up any time soon.

Virgil, obviously finished eating much more quickly than I did, makes a careful check of his blood sugar and then a calculation to make sure he has enough leeway to have it without adding to the basic dose of insulin, starts on his second coffee of the day. Scott, standing at the counter with his half-full mug, is on his fourth already. Freak.

I can't help but notice my temporary displeasure over the loss of caffeine has vanished without my realising, a fact that doesn't faze me too badly. I reckon that if I tried it now, I'd probably gag. My gag reflex definitely isn't at the strength it used to be.

I finish the orange juice that Virgil kindly got me when he was in the fridge before, before levering myself to my feet, blinking away momentary light-headedness.

Time to shower and dress, then off to the flipping hospital to be prodded, weighed and injected. Yay!

Or not. The more sarcastic part of my brain counters. This is gonna suck.

##

My assessment of the radiotherapy appointment is absolutely spot-on.

They get me to change out of my comfortable street clothes and make me pull on one of the paper gowns. I refuse to look down at my scarred and skinny midriff – my skin pale and my ribs showing beneath; I don't want to see proof of what a weakling I've become. My arm is more stiff than sore as I pull the gown over my shoulders and Dad helps me tie it at the back. I'm just thankful that they let me keep my sweatpants on for this; they've got no metal in them, which makes sense that Dad said I should wear these ones, much as I resented him telling me what to do at the time.

I recline on the bed in the cubicle, and wait as the nurse preps my elbow; they're not going to use the PICC line because of possible infection risk.

Ordinarily for the intravenous radiotherapy injections a patient would have to stay overnight, but the low-level dosage they're giving me is an attempt to slow the spread of the cancer cells rather than stop them in their tracks, so they're allowing me to go home under watch. That's what the upcoming bone-marrow transplant is going to be for. I'm glad that I can go an hour or so from now after they've kept me under observation, but it still means that it's going to have an impact on me, nevertheless.

Possible effects I'll be experiencing later will include anything from exhaustion up to and potentially including more nausea, despite the medications they've given me to counteract them, but I'm just praying that none materialise. I just want one day's break from this shit.

After the nurse has given me the first of the three shots, and the fifteen-minute interim period between that and the next begins, Dad goes down to get my newest lot of prescriptions. I doze as Scott texts someone on and off, presumably one of his Air Force buddies, or Virgil or Gordy for all I know. My headache, never really gone is still here, and I'm just trying to get rid of it without resorting to having to use more meds. It's made me sleepy and not completely responsive, so my brother leaves me be.

He doesn't seem to be entirely worried about his almost-breakdown last night, and I can't help but feel too tired and exhausted to try and go into it now. I figure I'll flag Dad down later and hopefully something will get done. Scott can't go on much longer like this, not if he wants to keep his sanity. My brother likes to put on the front that he's strong and can cope with anything that's thrown at him, but this seems to be eating him alive. He's held onto it for four years now, and if he keeps the fear about his war experiences bottled up for much longer, I can't see him coming through the other side of any potential meltdown whole. He needs to talk to someone, and even if it's not going to be me, Dad'll make sure it's taken care of.

##

An hour later, and I'm free to leave, with warnings to come back to the hospital if I feel short of breath or experience any dizziness trailing behind me. Dad supports my shoulders as I breathe through the paper mask over my mouth and nose, my cap on my head and my sweatshirt rolled up at the elbows. From the peek I had of myself in the bathroom mirror on the way out, I look as bad as I feel, but for once, I pay it no mind. The sock that covers the PICC line shows beneath my rolled-up sleeves, but I'm feeling a little overheated, and besides; I want to feel some of the mid-spring sunlight on my body. It's nice and warm.

Dad looks at me questioningly as I pause on the steps, before he simply grins in realisation and guides me to the car. Scott, his casted hand not helping his case at all as he scowls at his still-lingering ban on driving, leaves the shotgun seat to me; climbing into the back passenger side and rolling down the window on the old station-wagon that lives at the farm.

I'm bone-tired and my head is achy but I feel restless and have no inclination to wanting to go back to the house. I'm sick of being trapped within four walls, and want to get away for a bit in the fresh air.

Therefore, as Dad pulls out of the parking spot and into the hospital traffic, I pose my question.

"I don't know John…" He frowns, his hands tight upon the leather of the steering-wheel. "I don't want to make you feel trapped, or tell you what to do, but then again, you're not well, and I don't want you to do anything to jeopardise your health further. He flicks a glance at me. "What did you have in mind?"

Scott is suspiciously quiet in the backseat, and I wonder what's up with that, but I vow to come back to that later. I focus on Dad's question instead.

"I dunno." I say, rubbing the back of my neck tiredly. "I just want to get out of the house. It's going to drive me crazy, being stuck in there!" I cough as my breath catches on my crappy chest, but otherwise ignore the irritation. The gunk on my lungs is finally clearing up, thank God. "I just want to do something, before I get trapped inside the hospital…" My voice trails off.

Dad's face softens, and I know that he understands what I mean. I've spent far too much time in various hospitals over my life to have any interest in them. I might like being indoors and working on my laptop, but then again, I love the outdoors and horsing about with my brothers. He turns off the highway, and I beam as I recognise the destination.

"Really?" My eyes widen as I see the park where we had our family picnics when we were children, and then again, even further as I spot the figure that stands at one of the picnic tables…

"You planned this!" I shoot an accusatory glance at Scott over my shoulder, but there's no recrimination in my tone as Dad pulls the car into park, and the person I've spied trots over to us; glasses glinting in the bright sunlight.

I hurriedly unbuckle my seatbelt and open the car door, struggling to stand in haste despite my weakened limbs. I manage it just as the woman reaches the car and I pull her into an embrace, nearly falling into her as I overcompensate, just a little bit.

"Hello JT." Her voice is even clearer than it was over the strengthened link over my laptop, and damn, it feels so good to hug her, and not merely yearn to do it over Skype.

"Sherry…" I breathe, hugging her tightly, drawing back and taking a good look at her. "You look amazing!"

Her blonde hair is long and curly, and her blue eyes are shining with happiness, even if her gaze is a little uneven. Her glasses are purple-framed and she still only reaches my chin. She smiles, and though it flickers a little as she takes in the state of me, I can understand it. Sometimes a video-call doesn't do a person's appearance justice.

Somewhere, I sense Dad and Scott giving me and my best friend some modicum of time to ourselves, but I can still guess that both of them are still keeping a pretty close eye on me. It makes me annoyed at the entire situation again, but that's sort of squashed by the happiness that seeing Sherry gives me.

We walk towards the table that Sherry just vacated, and she grins at me shyly, her cheeks rosy in the sunlight, and my arm around her shoulders.

I smile softly as we sit down, my head still throbbing. "Not that I'm not happy to see you, 'Ri, but I'm really surprised that you're here so close to the big day. Where's Sky? How's he been? How have you been? I was intending to call you tonight."

"I'm pretty good, all the better for seeing you. Sky's fine John. He's still in Cape Town, but he told me to come over and see you. I've been talking about you a lot lately and he just told me to get on with it; he says he doesn't mind if I'm with another man if it's you."

I snicker. Sky's the weirdest guy I've ever met, not including my brothers. "Nice to know he won't smash my face in for hugging his fiancé. How long are you over here for? I know the wedding's in three days; you're cutting it a little fine, aren't you?"

"I'll be there in time." She smiles at me. "Don't stress. My mother would kill me if I was late. She's been driving me crazy!"

I grin at the thought. Mercedes Buyhan is a force of nature, and that's saying something, especially as I know my grandmother.

"She'll get over it when the craziness is over." I tell her. "Have you got your dress all ready yet?"

Sherry's face lights up, and she drags her iPhone out of her pocket, quickly flipping through the gallery to pass the device to me, on a particular image. I peer closely at the cell phone's screen, tipping it to erase the glare from the sun.

The picture is of Sherry in the dress; her hair flung over her shoulders. The garment is long and strapless, a beaded halter going up around her neck and wrapping around beneath her arms and over the bust. My breath catches in my throat. She looks beautiful. She'll look even better on the day, I know it. I just wish I was going to be there.

I tell her how beautiful it is, and she beams, but then she sees that the smile accompanying the words is sad and regretful, and I know that she can see how much the knowledge that I'm not going to be able to be at the wedding is hurting me.

She doesn't acknowledge it though, aside from placing her hand on my shoulder, because there's nothing either of us can do. We've spoken at length about these things over our video chats, and Sherry is up to date with my condition and what's coming for me, but I still hate with a passion the predicament that I'm in. She just pulls me in for a hug, and I lay my masked chin on the top of her head, pulling her close.

Oh how I've missed her. Living on opposite sides of the world ninety percent of the time makes it hard for frequent meetings, especially as we both have jobs. Then there's the secrecy of the IR outfit to add to everything else. I don't see her half as much as I would like to. It means that there's not a lot of time I can spend with my friend in person. We've known each other for six years now, and I miss her all the time, no matter how often we get to talk digitally.

We just sit there for God knows how long, content to merely be in each other's company, beneath the trees lining the picnic area.

I treasure this, because who knows if I'll get to see her again. With what's going on with me now, who fucking knows?

All too soon, Dad comes over and taps me on the shoulder, his face apologetic.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but John; we need to get you back to the house." His tone is gentle, but I still feel a rush of irritation, even though I know I've been out too long already.

Sighing, I nod, rubbing my forehead. I know I'm due for another session with the nebuliser again (yucky, icky phlegm-spitting in my future, great), so I stand; a little wobbly from the prolonged time sitting in the one spot. I pull my friend into my arms again, and press her tightly against my chest.

Sherry hugs me warmly back, her slim form strong beneath my arms. She kisses me platonically on the cheek, and I smile. She's amazing, my 'little sister'.

"I'll call you tomorrow." I promise, wanting to talk to her as much as I can. I don't want to miss a moment leading up to her marrying her man. Who knows what else I could lose? I don't want Sherry to be one of them.

She picks up her bag and waves to me as Dad lets me lean on him on the way back to the car. I'm exhausted and my head is thumping, but I'm happy, nevertheless.

"Thanks guys." I say, closing my eyes to try to sleep on the trip back to the house.

"Our pleasure, Johnny." I can hear the smile in Scott's voice, as Dad puts a hand wordlessly on my shoulder.

I want to cry and laugh at the same time, because of the emotions whirling in my chest, but my mood is buoyant.

This has made my day.

##

My head is aching worse than ever about half an hour after dinner, even though I took some of my stronger pain medications once we got home.

However, at the moment I actually feel pretty alert despite the drag on my limbs from the radiotherapy. I'm nestled comfortably next to Virgil on the couch with my eyes closed, listening to one of Dad's favourite shows, Law and Order as Gordon reads his textbook, and Alan batters away on the buttons on his Nintendo DS. Dad's got his laptop open as he watches, tapping away on his report for something-or-other for Tracy Aeronautics.

Grandma has gone back to her house for an early night, and to keep an eye on Tin-Tin and Fermat, who are flying back to the island tomorrow with Brains, Kyrano and Onaha (they're prepping the plane for the morning, or something, she said) and I've absolutely no idea where Scott is right now. He's never had any patience with these sorts of shows, so he vacated the room as soon as he heard the distinctive theme music. I don't particularly like it either, but I'm far too comfortable now to even consider moving.

I'm drowsing as the exhaustion from the radiotherapy creeps up on me, so I almost don't realise that something is wrong until I register the feeling of wetness running down the lower half of my face. I put my hand reflexively up to my mouth, before opening my eyes in confusion; startled to see blood on my fingers as I hold them up in my line of sight.

Worried and a little sleepy, I struggle up into a properly-seated position, inadvertently smearing blood onto the couch. I cough and clutch my head, the sudden movement having prompted a stab of pain behind my eyes.

It's not currently too bad, the nosebleed; I've been having them a little more often that is desirable, but the doctors are trying to not have me on too heavy a dose, because that could cause blood clots and the like.

That in itself would become an issue, as I'm still recovering from major surgery and my arm is still fairly swollen with fluid, even more than two weeks following the operation. Doctor Kim is keeping an eye on it, and they're thinking of draining it if it continues to persist. That could unfortunately cause a whole host of problems if something goes wrong; like if I get an infection this close to the transplant, but if it's needed, that's a risk we're going to have to take.

I reach out to the box of tissues on the side table, and with a wad of them in my hand, I tip my head forward; pinching my thumb and forefinger over the cartilage just beneath the bridge of my nose so it doesn't run into my mouth. It'll stop in a minute and I might try and have a lie down; I'm getting really tired right now.

To Virgil's concerned question at my side, I shrug and nod simultaneously; the pressure increasing in my sinuses as the flow slowly ceases.

When I remove the tissues from my nose, they're soaked with blood, and there's a foul taste in the back of my throat as well as the lingering achiness, but I feel okay enough to lever myself slowly to my feet with my brother's help and head towards the kitchen, waving Dad away sleepily as he comes to help me in Virgil's place.

Along with a glass of water, and a check of the chart and list on the kitchen counter to ensure I'm allowed to have them, I palm back a couple of Panadeine Forte to deal with my nagging headache. After placing the glass carefully in the sink, and grabbing a bottle of water out of the fridge in case I need it later, I duck back into the doorway of the lounge.

Dad looks up from his laptop again, as Detectives Benson and Stabler interrogate another suspect; observing me carefully over his reading glasses. He asks the ever-occurring question, and I smile and nod, tiredly tugging my hat down over my ears, a habit now, after so many weeks of wearing it.

"I'm fine Dad, just tired. I'm going to bed, just saying goodnight."

Struck by a sudden need to do it, and smiling fondly at the surprise in my father's face and posture as I do so, I lean on him as I wrap my arms around him in a hug, laying my head on his shoulder and holding him tightly. It only lasts for a few seconds, but I feel a little better because of it. I breathe in the scent of him, and feel warmth tugging inside. I hate that I'm putting him through this again, but I love him for everything he's doing. I couldn't ask for more. He doesn't freak out, he's scared shitless for me, but all he's doing is making sure that I'm coping. I wouldn't be me without him, and I don't know how to thank him, aside from this.

When I look into his face, the look in his eye tells me that he understands perfectly.

A smile at Virgil and Gordon, and a ruffle of Alan's curly hair, because he's close, and I set off again, trying not to let on how much exhaustion is weighing down my steps.

I do look for Scott as I go, but I presume that he's gone up to his room and I don't have the energy to take another hike up there; my legs are wobbly and my hands are shaking from tiredness.

Rubbing my temples, I carefully make my way up the stairs, and after brushing my teeth, I head to my room and pull my sweater off of my pyjamas, careful to avoid the gauze still taped around my shoulder and down my side. I climb into bed, switching off the lamp, the darkness lending a welcome relief against the heightening pressure behind my eyes.

I'm asleep before my head hits the pillow.

##

I wake sometime later, coughing deeply and sharply; my breath catching in my lungs as I fight for air.

My head is throbbing fit to burst, and my surroundings spin around me, making the sick feeling I've got rumbling in my gut infinitely worse.

I'm not sure if it's an effect of the radiation session from earlier, but my ears are ringing and my mouth is unbearably dry and sore as I cough, my side and back aching. I grope around for the bottle of water that I bought up with me, but I can't find it. Dammit!

Bracing myself for dizziness, I swing my legs slowly out of my bed, vaguely realising that Virgil is curled up in the bed at my side again. That worries me; both that he hasn't woken, and that it took me so long to notice him, but I don't have time to deal with that right now, the coughs hurt too badly, and my eyes are streaming.

I'm so sick of this being the focus of my entire life, but this win or lose, and I guess that I have to focus on it like this to be able to have a chance in hell of winning against this fucking thing.

I stagger down the hall to the bathroom, realising that I left the bottle there earlier, but I suddenly change direction as I enter; stumbling for the toilet, where I gag and retch into the bowl, thankfully not bringing anything up for a bit of foul-smelling spit.

It's the radiation treatment tipping everything on its head again, I know that, but the only issue is that there's no guarantee that I know what side-effects I will get from this. The increased tiredness and coughing is a great indicator, I suppose, but the nausea and dizziness could be any number of things, not to do with the radiotherapy at all.

I groan as I heave again, my lips stinging as the saliva gets into the cracks in the skin. I need to remember to put the moisturiser on them, but then again it just stings when I put it on and I hate the taste of the vile stuff. I can only just see in here; the moon shining through the window allows me to see just more than shadows, but everything has a fuzzy quality to it because I'm without my glasses again.

I pull my hat off from where it's become askew during the night, and run my hands wearily over my head, hating the feel of the half-long, half-spiky crop of new and old growth there. Should probably just shave the lot off tomorrow, it's uneven anyway.

Gonna sound horribly vain, not to mention girly, but I love my hair, and it's going to suck seeing it go. I feel naked with it half-shorn, having none at all will make me look like a cancer patient as well as feeling like it.

I feel like absolute crap right now, but at least the coughing has stopped. The water bottle sits on the basin where I left it, and now my stomach has calmed a little, I manage to sip a couple of mouthfuls, but not before rinsing out my mouth and spitting it into the toilet. I rest my head on the edge of the seat, the pressure in my head mounting until I have to squeeze my eyes shut with the pain of it. It's not a migraine, really, but I have to say that it's far from pleasant, and almost as debilitating; a pulsing, sharp, heavy pain that feels like it's pressing on the backs of my eyeballs. It's horrible.

I sit there in the moonlit dark for a while, my shirt damp and my eyes heavy with exhaustion, too tired to get back up. I'm curled in on myself as I sit against the wall with my head buried in my arms, and I shiver a little at the dampness of my shirt and bottoms in the cool air.

Without warning, the pressure sitting in my head peaks, making me cry out, and I clutch at my temples, cursing as I drop the opened bottle in the process, saturating my pyjama trousers in cold water and nearly toppling over into the puddle it creates as I lose my centre of balance.

All of that is pushed from my mind though, as pain slams into me; hot wetness spurting from my nose and down over my mouth and chin.

I said that I've had nosebleeds before, not counting that horrific one that I had before the secondary cancer was diagnosed, but even that doesn't hold a candle to the intensity of this one. Within moments my front is saturated with scarlet, running down my arms, pooling on the floor, and running backwards down my throat and down my face into my open mouth as I try to breathe through that sole remaining airway.

Gasping through the overwhelming smell of copper and iron, and the sickening whirling of dizziness in my head, I curl in on myself; terror searing through me as I realise that I'm on my own, everyone else is asleep, and my nose is pouring blood like a hose has been cut.

I whimper; the darkness closing in too fast, and in my panic I accidentally send the ceramic canisters that hold our toothbrushes and the soap dispenser flying onto the tiled floor.

They fall with a shattering bang of broken crockery onto the white squares, and I cry out as my arm is cut by one of the jagged pieces. My hands clapped over my face and my closed eyes are the only things that stop me from being more badly hurt by it, but that's not the most important thing in my mind. I retch and gasp as I try not to choke on my own lifeblood, and I cry; tears mixing with sticky, drying liquid on my face.

I'm all alone, and covered in blood, and I feel close to passing out. Everything feels damp and hot, and I make a strangled noise as terror overrides any rational thought. I want my Dad. I need help, and I'm all alone.

"John!" Someone's arms are suddenly supporting me, moving me from a keeled-over position, and I'm pulled back against their chest as a towel is pressed against my face, pressing me forward so I don't choke.

I can't breathe, I can't see, and I gag; actual vomit climbing its way out of my mouth and down my shirt; mixing with the blood and making me sob stutteringly as my name is said repeatedly. Other noises intrude on my consciousness; frantic yelling, blaring, and what sounds like my brothers' names, my name, and various other voices. I can't move though, can't respond. I can't bring myself to care though, bizarrely.

I try to tell them that I'm scared, that I can't breathe, but I feel my limbs go boneless and the blindness becomes total. Suddenly, all I'm left with is stereophonic ringing in my ears as everything suddenly blacks out; the greys and dark silver washing into pitch.


	7. The Dark Before Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no, I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Also, in addition, any references to medical information is only found on the web, and any errors and discrepancies in the items used are purely my own.

I wake suddenly and forcefully, a scream tearing its way through my hoarse throat. I feel the arms from before still gripped firmly around my upper torso, and I register that there's something over my nose, pinching it gently as nausea rolls in a constant loop, feeling soggy and hot.

Wrenching my eyes open, meeting darkness and dim shapes, I sob sharply as there is sound suddenly filtering into my left ear, the voice making it low and soothing and calm. I can breathe, sort of, through the choking, searing gasps, but terror still roars through me. My ears ring and my head pounds painfully, and I frown deeply, confused. I'm okay, it seems, but how...? How did I...?

"Shh, Johnny... I've got you..." Virgil murmurs, interrupting my train of thought, his voice trembling slightly. "It was just a dream, you're okay, I've got you. Dad's coming, big brother. It was only a dream..."

"Oh my God..." I croak, as cognizance crashes into me, my head splitting, choking on the taste of blood and vomit that still clogs my throat. "Oh my God..." I screw my eyes more tightly closed, riding out the nausea, and my brother's voice continues it's soothing roll about me.

It was just a dream. A nightmare, more like. Jesus. What a mess...

Slowly, the vividness of the bathroom scene begins to retreat, leaving me shuddering painfully in Virgil's overly-warm grip. He's crammed his body in behind mine, half propped up against the headboard, my head against his chest, and I can feel his chin resting lightly on my shoulder; his tousled, dark sandy hair brushing my cheek. I breathe out in a shuddering motion, hands scrabbling for stability in the blankets as I will my heartbeat to slow.

"Alright?" My brother breathes softly, rubbing my good shoulder carefully, and I feel a rush of gratitude for him for being so damn gentle in his probable panic just now. It's my head that's more painful than anything else.

Nodding it tentatively, I feel the sticky wetness of the fluids from my nose and stomach over my mouth and chin, and I raise my hand clumsily, clamping my lips closed as I use my sleeve to wipe it away somewhat. _Eew._ Slightly calmer now that reality has re-emerged, I push myself upright into a seated position, and open my eyes into slits as Virgil continues to rub my back. I can just see the bed in my lower vision staring at the wall as my tipped-back head allows, darkness painting the folds of the blankets in shadow; the moonlight on the ceiling and the hunched silhouettes of my telescope and the boxes of old astronomy gear soothing me with their presence.

There are hurried footsteps, and the bedside lamp is switched on, warm yellow, and it helps in chasing away the terrors in some indefinable way. I flinch as it sends a blast of pain into both of my eyes, but they flicker toward the new arrival anyway, my arms reflexively grabbing for him.

_Dad..._

"John?" Dad's voice is hoarse with sleep, but reassuring, and his blue eyes bore into mine in worry as he tips his head to the side, bending down to meet my gaze.

Virgil checks the bleeding as I nod, acknowledging my father's words, my brother patting me on the shoulder as his fingers finally let go of my nose, allowing the muscles in my neck to ease.

"Are you okay?" Dad asks. "What on earth happened?" His eyes switch between Virgil and I as he speaks, but unfortunately, I'm not exactly in a place to answer. I've been distracted by something slightly more important than some stupid nightmare. This is worse. Much worse. Nausea rises slightly, but I ignore it, cringing. _Just... Urgh._

More than vomiting, more than enduring splitting headaches that are so bad that you can barely function, more than putting your family through the pain of you declining, that it feels like the whole world is being ripped open beneath your feet; the loss of every shred of dignity you've ever possessed is in a way, a fate worse than death. I'm saying it now, and in all likelihood I will end up saying it again a thousand times before all of this comes to an end, in one way or another.

There is honestly nothing more humiliating than the lows you fall to as a cancer patient.

My logical brain hasn't yet caught up to the emotional center's rather unpleasant discovery, but that doesn't stop me from startling my brother and my father both, as I make a flame-cheeked bid to fight free of the blankets that feel like they have turned into manacles. I hate how much this disease of mine is robbing me of all my basic abilities, so it is of course, _entirely_ realistic that I am able to have the one-up on both Virgil and Dad with my sudden, mortified lunge to the edge of the mattress. None of us, me least of all, expect me to be able to move so fast, especially considering my current physical condition, but I do, probably fueled by embarrassment and anger at myself, both. _Don't do stuff by halves, do you Johnny?_ I curse vehemently. What fucking twenty-two-year-olds wet their beds? 'Course, that answer is obviously me, isn't it?

Naturally, it's only my father's quick arms around my waist that stop me face-planting on the floor, and his eyes are wide and concerned as he grips my arms, and my younger brother almost sprints around the bed.

'Course, now I've scared them, haven't I? Fucking brilliant.

"Oh, John..." Dad sighs and holds a hand up to Virgil as he sees my trousers and we both smell the stench, my cheeks flaming and furious tears springing unbidden to my eyes. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_! "C'mon, let's get you to the bathroom, quiet now. Virgil, get him some clean things will you, and strip the bed?" My father looks at me, empathy and sympathy both in his dark eyes, and I swallow the burning lump in my throat as Virgil tactfully doesn't meet my eyes. Dad helps me sit up properly and move away from the mingled piss, vomit and congealing blood on what used to be a rather comfortable collection of bedclothes, and I grab the edge of the mattress with my right hand, my left arm wrapped around my side; twinging painfully from my sudden movement.

My head is spinning slightly from blood-loss vertigo and embarrassment both, my back is absolutely throbbing, and even though I can't bring myself to speak right now, a grunting, high whine of mingled pain and disgust emerges without my permission. I need a shower, a painkiller, and the ability to turn back time. Whichever order is preferable, I don't have the ability to care right now otherwise.

As Virgil busies himself at the bureau, I stare at the floor as Dad helps me to my feet, waiting for me to get them beneath me, wobbly as they are right now. He doesn't mention the dampness of my trousers and how they get stuck beneath my heels as we slowly reach the bedroom door. I notice absently that my shirtfront is absolutely covered in blood, much like the bedcovers, but I'm grimly hopeful that my physicians seem to have found the right dosage of coagulants to at least keep some sort of lid on any thrombocytopenic bleeding that occurs. It seems as though, unlike in my dream, the epistaxis, this episode - while heavier than any non-sufferer would endure - was lighter than they've been for a while.

Really, the fact that I had that considerably minor nosebleed just before I went to bed should've probably clued me into the suspicion that I might've had another one during the night, however we'd been told that was under control with the red-platelet transfusion I had early yesterday morning before I got released, raising my numbers to something measuring merely a couple thousand below the normal threshold, rather than several. They're tracking it, obviously (with the sheer number of blood-draw pinpricks in the elbow without the PICC in it, I should damn well hope so), but obviously this is going to continue to be a tricky balance to keep, what with everything else that's going on with my body right now. They experimented continuously with a number of dosages over the coherent portion of my hospital stay, but as I know from these last seven weeks or so, there's no guarantee that things are going to stay stable for any concentrated length of time.

Urgh, my brain's going in circles, meandering among the useless and obvious statements, my overtired brain running overtime and my hands and knees shaking with lingering shock and the effort of standing up in my current level of exhaustion. I push the technical thoughts away (I'm too damn tired right now to even think about any of that crap, let alone what my body is trying to do to itself this time), I'm just trying to concentrate in putting one foot in front of the other. Both literally and figuratively.

Dad guides me finally into the bathroom with the fresh clothes that Virgil hands him, and lowers me to sit on the closed toilet lid. I swallow my disgust as wet pyjama trousers rub my thighs uncomfortably, feeling sick to my stomach and kind of hot. I feel like I'm trying to think through fog, and I wonder vaguely if my thought processes have been affected by exhaustion, blood loss, shock, or just fear-instinct this time. However, Dad's hands are gently on my shoulders, and he's catching my attention. Like everything else, I'll deal with working that out later. Whenever later comes.

"I'm... okay." I mumble as Dad slides his rough fingers carefully beneath my chin, my ears barely registering his ever-more-concerned query as he lifts my head from my contemplation of my knobbly, too-thin legs. "Just... I'm sick of this." I meet his eyes reluctantly, biting my lip as I wave my arm slowly about, encompassing the entire bathroom. Like the bathroom is an accurate indicator of 'everything'... Great job John.

"I'm... I'm... flailing, Dad... I... I can't..." My voice breaks with no warning, and the tears come for real then. I can't stop myself from letting out a series of sobs, eyes screwing closed, heat rising in my already-flushed cheeks, a hard lump solidifying in my throat.

Dad instantly stands from where he's squatted at my eye level, and pulls me to his chest, heedless of the blood and urine on my clothes and the vomit on my breath. For a moment, I can't breathe with the panic that overwhelms me, and I grab the back of his shirt, clenching the material so hard that my sore, chapped hands creak. _Oh God..._

"Oh John..." Dad's breath is hot on the side of my neck, and his fingers run through my thin hair as he holds me upright, my shoulders shaking. I know it's mostly exhaustion and fear talking right now, drowning out what is my father's reassurance, but I feel like my whole soul is splitting apart at the seams, and I can't seem to get enough breath. Dad perches on the edge of the bathtub to my right, and I cling tighter to him as the pain eases slightly, but it's not long before I start to gasp with the discomfort I'm currently in. It all tumbles in on me.

My brothers, Dad, Grandma, Sherry, oh God, Sherry, how can I... It's too hard, why do I bother keeping on trying? I don't see the point in being in this much pain. I'm reduced to pissing myself, having bloody hallucinatory dreams and bursting into tears at the drop of a hat, like someone close to kicking the bucket. Oh dear God, I'm so scared right now, and disgusted with myself. It's fucking sickening, how did I not know? How did that even happen? Is it something to do with the cancer, the treatment? Is it going to get worse, will it get so bad that I don't know my own family? _Fuck!_

"John," Dad's tipping my head back suddenly, and I can barely control my gasps as he brushes my hair from my face, hand cupping my jaw as his voice reaches my ears through the previous sound-block. It is stern, but sensitive and supportive, and it takes a lot of effort to do so, but I force myself to listen. Fuck. "John, just take a deep breath, just close your eyes and count for me alright? In through your nose, out through your mouth, five seconds each, it'll help. I've got you, Son, I've got you..."

I can hear the anguish, well-hidden though it is in my father's voice, but now I've latched onto his overlaid, probably-forced calm, I can recognise the Commander-level determination in his words; like Scott in Field Commander mode, or Virgil with his doctor-in-training persona. That's what steadies me, strangely enough, the comparisons to my father's and brothers' roles in a organisation that I might never be able to take active part in again. The reminder that I was - am - a member of International Rescue; an outfit dedicated to helping others out of impossible situations, shows me that I'm surrounded with people with the same mindset. Dad's taking control of it, but it doesn't necessarily mean that I have to.

It reminds me that I'm allowed to crumble, that he and the others can as well if they need to, that it's not only as an organisation of rescuers we are supported, but also as the family of the rescuers. We all take some measure of strength from one another. Double insulation. As I register that, probably for the thousandth time, I remember the ways that my brothers and I have interacted over the trying periods in our lives - the last few weeks more than any other time - and a part of me wonders why the hell I've let myself get so worked up over this considerably minor speed-hump. Pure, psychological stupidity most likely.

Dad doesn't ask if I'm okay, he knows I'm not; he knows me too well, has seen me in this state too many times to waste his breath, but he just continues to rub my back as I cry myself out.

That's not fair though. It's not that he'd be wasting his breath. I mean, there's something to said for the contradictory reassurance that is provided when you're told something is going to be alright when it most certainly isn't. Sometimes a person needs that temporary sense of security, the white lie; a defence against the real world, even if just for a short amount of time until it kicks back into gear.

Dad knows that I can't always handle that, and tonight; this is one of those unnecessary moments. He knows that the majority of the time, I need to slog it out on my own without the false assurances, because we can't be sure. Not this time. The way that I'm voluntarily clinging to him like this, in way that I haven't done for years now is proof enough of that.

##

It took me a good twenty minutes, given the fact that my balance is shot to crap, and my head is still aching, but finally, I'm clean and dry. Embarrassingly, Dad wouldn't leave the bathroom while I washed, for safety's sake, but I took the opportunity while I was in the shower to rid myself of the garish purple ink that had marked the areas from the radiation therapy session for yesterday; small and large circles traced on my throat, on the right side of my stomach, and in the right side of my chest respectively, where the white, pebble-like patches of the infected lymph nodes are clustered.

From the ...incident, and the slightly more elevated temperature I'm exhibiting, Dad thinks that I might be developing a urinary tract infection due to how long I was catheterised in the hospital, even though the foley was changed regularly for hygiene purposes. Dad's made a note to contact the hospital and Dr. Kingston in the morning, just in case it's some sort of accumulative side-effect from the medications I've been on since the surgery, but we won't know for sure until my latest round of pathology tests come back from the lab. Hopefully the 'walking drugstore' thing will hold it off it that is the case, but with my track record lately, I'm not in a state to say that I'm very confident.

I'm still kind of spooked by the nightmare, and my nerves are jangling like I've parked myself on a live-wire, even though the bathroom didn't become the scene that had scared me so badly. Therefore, rather than go back to bed, I shake my head when Dad offers to help me back to my room, as Virgil sticks his head through the door, reporting that the bedclothes have been changed over, and that he's got a granola bar for me to eat to help raise my blood sugar from the residual shock of fluctuating blood pressure.

"It's fine..." I say hoarsely as I lever myself slowly to my feet from my perch on the toilet seat again, accepting the snack with a nod of thanks and a quick smile to my brother. Looks like my body's reverting to its old fallback for when something's troubling me, at least in normal circumstances; Insomnia. "I'll catch up tomorrow, I'm just..." I shake my head wearily. "I just can't right now." I'm wide awake and though my body is damn worn out, my brain is jumping from place to place so that I'm literally vibrating with nervous energy.

Dad nods, his lips pursed. He understands where I'm coming from, but he doesn't like it. I don't much either, but I know that my bed isn't going to give me much comfort until I've put daylight hours between myself and the events of tonight, however much I need proper sleep.

"I'll grab your things." He tells me quietly, clapping his hand on my shoulder, meaning a blanket and my pillows on the off chance that having a change of scenery will help me drop off again. "Virgil, help your brother down the stairs this time, will you? I don't want a repeat of yesterday."

Dad's right on that note, my foot isn't bad to stand on, it's just a bit tender if I'm up on it for too long. My back's hurting badly though, aching up through the back my pelvis and my kidneys, and the remains of Thunderbird Five will hear about it if I jack my sciatica up again, I can tell you.

Virgil nods as he wraps an arm around my back and helps me to the hallway, and Dad splits off toward my bedroom to fetch my comforter. I'm happy to leave the bathroom behind me right now. It might be a bit childish and ridiculous to dislike a place so suddenly and intensely because something so petty and minor occurred there, but it's a sign of how bad this is getting overall that I feel entirely justified in indulging in stupid grudges with inanimate, inarticulable objects. I said I was intelligent, not that I had any common sense. And I have admitted I am mentally exhausted too, so I'm definitely cutting myself some slack here.

_Shut up Brain._

I can feel Virgil's eyes on me and I let out a huff of annoyance as I make him wait at the bottom of the stairs for a moment so I can catch my breath. His gaze is conflicted as I meet it, and I wonder what he is thinking behind those hazel eyes of his. He's not said much at all since he woke me up, for which I'm grateful for, but in another way, I'm a bit concerned, because only a month or so ago, Virgil was well on the way to becoming a top graduate in the _Scott Tracy School of Smothering_ , and he's barely focusing on anything nowadays. I wouldn't ever admit it to any of my brothers lest I get teased for eternity by the younger ones about how much of a great sap I'm turning into in my old age, but this is yet another thing that isn't like Virgil.

It might be because of his new illness, it could be just because of me, it's so hard to tell, but this twenty-year-old ghost looking at me is not my little brother. I glance at Virgil as I breathe in against the tightness of my chest, and I see that his mouth is twisted in concern. He's staring right back at me, and it might be a bit obvious, but for once, just looking closer at him like this allows me to see immediately that I was right on the second guess. Trouble is there's not a lot I can do about it.

"I'm fine John." Virgil says quietly, brushing my examination off with barely a heartbeat's consideration. Looks like I'm not the only one who doesn't want attention drawn to themselves tonight. "Levels are too low right now, so I'm keeping you company, need to get them back up again and I can't sleep until then." He pats his robe pocket, pre-empting my query about snacks and his blood testing supplies. Looking up to meet my gaze properly as we make our slow way into the living room, Virgil cocks an eyebrow at me, a small grin lifting the edge of his mouth. "Okay?"

I nod, accepting his reasoning without question. Virgil might be new to Diabetes, but he knows what he's doing, and I'm grateful that he appears to have had the same idea as me. If he's awake and willing to keep me company, then that suits me perfectly. Two's company after all.

I know that Scott is dead asleep, because he hasn't woken even with all the racket I made earlier, which is a damned relief. Much like Gordon and Alan in the way that when he really does manage to fall deeply asleep, nothing short of tectonic disruption will wake him, Scott _needs_ this. It doesn't happen often at all, probably once or twice every few months, which shows just how exhausted he really is at the moment, so I absolutely refuse to disturb him just so I can have a baby sitter. I hate the fact that it's necessary for me to have a minder, but it is. I can't get out of that one, but if that were true I wouldn't be like this, and everything would be absolutely peachy, which it's not. _Blech._

Dad needs his sleep just as much as Scott, more really; needing the energy and clarity of mind to continue dealing with the company, as well as trying to coordinate with Brains and the Kyranos over International Rescue going ahead like I want it to, and of course then there's us, isn't there? Stretched thin, Jefferson Tracy is, and daft as it might be, I feel I need to do my bit to help him. Virgil and I are going to have to team up to convince him to go back and sleep, because even though our father is one of the most level-headed people I know, he has his less-so moments. He keeps his calm in all possible situations, but when it involves one of us boys, he tends to go a bit crazy, even if he doesn't mean it. I guess we all do.

I've settled on the sofa wearily as Virgil flicks through the channels on the almost-muted television set when Dad does turn up again, and he looks between the two of us as he stands in the doorway, his brow furrows as he realises what we're doing. To my bemusement though, his expression melts into amused resignation, and he shakes his head.

"What do I do with you two?" He sighs, eyeing us up.

Virgil's got a few bottles of water on the coffee table, and his testing kit is dumped on the floor on top of the folded quilt that normally hangs off the back, awaiting him to climb beneath it. He's hoarding all the cushions except for Grandma's memory-foam chiropractic one that I've commandeered for my glitchy spine, and I feel a flicker of amusement as I register the almost fort-like design of the nest he's made for himself. "I can tell when I'm not wanted..." Dad grins tiredly and hands me my comforter and pillow, for which I smirk back at him in thanks, my consumed granola bar feeling like a lead weight in my gut. "One of you shout if you need anything, right?"

His shadowed-purple eyes are stern, belying his cheerful tone, and my breath catches, reminding me of what happened before. Uh-uh, no, I was doing pretty well at ignoring that til now, go away... I push it back, but make a note for later, if I damn well remember this time. We need therapy, the lot of us, I just know it.

Virgil, having found something worth watching on the hard drive, chucks the remote control onto the sofa in the gap created by our socked feet, and tugs the quilt over himself, glancing at Dad with a promise in his face. "Sure, Dad." He says. "We'll be fine though. I swear."

I prop my chin on the rim of my recently-acquired mug of hot chocolate as Dad accepts the possibly-redundant promise with what looks like far too much knowledge of potential disaster. He looks like he might protest, but then leaves anyway with a last look over the two of us, for certainty's sake.

I sigh quietly to myself as the opening credits for _Star Trek: The Undiscovered Country_ play softly from the television speakers. The moment is peaceful, though I'm trying to ignore that looming thing that keeps popping up without any warning, but it's not entirely working. There's a horrible ache in my chest, more emotional than physical this time, and it literally hurts to realise that I might very well lose these moments very quickly, very soon.

Biting my lip, I do my best to shove it away, but I come to the conclusion that there are often times that I envy my younger brothers their ability to always continue to rediscover that elusive thing called optimism.

The moment is great, but damn, I _hate_ this.


	8. Only When It Rains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If not for Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no, I do not own the Thunderbirds.
> 
> Also, in addition, any references to medical information is only found on the web, and any errors and discrepancies in the items used are purely my own.

My next awakening is just as sudden as the last, though thankfully nowhere near as dramatic. I'm drenched in sweat, and I feel washed out and a bit dizzy, but my mind is clear at least, and my gut plummets as I realise that there's a heated argument going on from what sounds like the kitchen, down the hall.

The confrontation sounds both harsh and fierce, though I can tell they're attempting, vainly - I might add - to be quiet. I frown. Virgil is nowhere to be seen, and for some reason, that disconcerts me. I squint near-sightedly at the clock on the dvd player and frown. It's after 10am, and they've let me sleep. Considerate, especially after last night and all, yuck, but no. Something's not right, and I don't know what it is. Gah.

I can make out the strong sound of Scott's voice, his tone hard and determined, but I can't discern the words nor who the other two are; lower in volume but no less intense. My younger brothers, most definitely, but which of the three, I have no idea.

It takes a few seconds of hard fighting with the heavy quilt over me, sticky with perspiration, and a few gasping breaths to centre the burning pressure in my abdomen and spine (Again? Yeesh), but I'm in a fairly upright position and crossing the room with more adrenaline than I thought I would actually have with the state I'm in. Even if my legs are shaking with each step and my pores are streaming sweat, I'm moving, gross as it is. Side effects, _yuck_.

The sounds become clearer even as I trip towards the hallway door, my bad ankle throbbing, and my brows rise, my body shaking as I suddenly hear Virgil's voice, high with irritation, and full of anger.

"I'm fine, Scott." He seethes. "I know exactly what I'm doing, and it'll go down, I've just got to wait it out, alright? I don't need fucking nursemaids, or brothers spying on me just because their older siblings told them to! What makes you think you have the goddamn right to-"

"Because, you're stubborn, pigheaded, and don't like drawing attention to yourself, even if you need it." Gordon's drawling tone joins in, and I blink. Well that clarifies that... "Scott didn't make me do anything Virgil; I went to him, because if there's something Scott can do, it's get you to get you to admit that something's going on."

Eyes wide, I brace myself outside the wall, out of sight of the kitchen, even as my knees tremble with the effort of standing upright. Virgil splutters in outrage, and shock courses through me. I've never heard Virgil so mad he's rendered speechless. Crap, that's a bad sign...

"I. Am. _Fine_." The words come, iron-hard and razor-edged, and I flinch back, startled through my fatigue. "I'm handling it, alright? I know I'm tired, but you goddamn try it. Cut me some slack, I'm fucking twenty years old, I don't need a babysitter, I don't need someone looking over my shoulder, telling me how to treat myself. The doctors did that in the hospital, Dr. McKae is doing it now. You have no right..."

"We do if you're starving yourself, Virgil." Scott again, his voice impatient and hard as steel. "That's just going to make you even crankier, tireder and then you'll end up back in hospital, that's the last thing we need righ-"

"Right now? What? With John the way he is? God, Scott, how the fuck stupid do you think I am? The diabetes hasn't affected my brain, stop treating me like I'm an idiot. I know what I'm doing, even if it doesn't sit with you. I know that John is the priority, that's why I just spent half the night up with him after he pissed himself, fucking threw up from the mother of all nightmares. I had to send Dad back to bed, I couldn't go myself while my levels were so low, so I took care of him while you and the others fricking slept like goddamned logs!"

Oh shit... Mixed anger and mortification blaze up in me, and my breath catches in humiliation. It's beginning... Like it did last time; they'll start going at each other because of me, like Dad and Grandma and Grandpa had when they thought I couldn't hear. Me being sick changed everything, it already has again this time! It makes everyone forget about looking after themselves, altering their entire lives around me, hating me for needing them but not wanting to at the same time. I don't want to hear any more, but I can't stop myself from listening, pretty much glued to the spot from pain and horror. Nausea intensifies in my gut, and I clutch at the wall, feeling ridiculously close to tears.

"That's not fair, Virge, and you know it." Gordon interrupts again, cutting off what sounds like Scott's growl of outrage. "No one said you're stupid. If he lets us, any of us would help, you know that, same with you, all he has to do is ask and-"

"But he won't and you know it!" Virgil snaps harshly. "He's as damn stubborn as the rest of us, and much as we do wanna help him, there's only so much we can do when he doesn't want to be coddled."

"Yeah, well, if you're lucky enough that he chose you for that dubious honour," Gordon snorts, "Then all's well for you, isn't it? Personally, I'd be happy if we could all get a good night's sleep without something happening."

"And what happened to you being all tender and caring two minutes ago then, Gords?" Scott queries, and I can almost hear his eyebrows raising, just about see the snap in his dark eyes as he tries to control his temper. Their voices are getting more snippy, and even raising in volume, and they've clearly not realised... "It's no different to being called out to rescues, and you know it, and what's more, John is more important than any of those. He's our brother, for Christsakes', there's no need to argue over-"

"Oh, right, says you." Virgil's voice interjects, laced with disgust. " You were just saying the other day how people are dying while we're sitting here, stagnant, that because we're inoperative, we can't do anything to help. Never minding that you're basically useless yourself because you thought it was a good idea to punch a damn wall..."

Scott makes a choking sound, not dissimilar to what Virgil made before, and I can't stand it any more. Swallowing harshly as I struggle to be quiet, I use all my concentration to turn on my heel and stagger back into the lounge, my full bladder notwithstanding. I won't let on that I've heard them arguing, I know it's just stress and the unusual circumstances talking, but it certainly doesn't help me bear it any better. Does Alan think like this? Dad? Grandma? We've been in so much of a routine for so long now with IR, that it is hard to get out of it again so abruptly, but still, it damn hurts that it's all because of me that everything is tumbling down around us.

I collapse back onto the couch, pulling the blanket up to my chin, shivering with emotion and shock as I close my eyes, trying to blink away the stupid tears. I know exactly what my brothers are referring to, the IR aspect; it damn aches to know that we can't do our jobs because our equipment isn't up to standard right now, and that somehow, suddenly the good of the few is suddenly outweighing the needs of the many. I hate it with a passion. I've been trying to ignore the news reports at the best of times, the bulletin that the Hood is locked away for good now by British authorities - even without the testimony of International Rescue - was the last report I actively listened to, weeks ago now, but I know my brothers too well to think that they wouldn't have followed them themselves.

I've been too busy focusing on trying to get well, trying to fight this damned disease to devote energy to fretting over potential rescues, selfish as it sounds, but foolishly, I haven't realised 'til now that my family hasn't had that same kind of distraction. They've got too much time on their hands, and without the repairing of the 'Birds to occupy them, though it isn't intentional, the lack of normal stimulation has allowed resentment to fester.

I curse to myself as I bite my lip, my cheeks hot and sore. How in the hell could I have been so stupid, to have not realised what's been happening!?

Well, I think grimly to myself, swiping the wetness from my eyes, feeling a hard knot solidify in my throat. That's it, isn't it? I guess my choice is in front of me. I can't stay here if they think that of this whole fucking situation. I love my family, and I can't say that having them all so close at this time isn't comforting to me, in the most basic of ways, but not if it's making them feel like the situation is suffocating them. It's not like they're the ones being eaten from within, not like their very existences are threatened right now, but I know that I'm a damn good person, I won't inflict my presence on them if they don't think they can handle it any more...

Swallowing harshly, I choke back the tears that want to leak out, and furiously fling back the blankets, regardless of the pain that reverberates through me. May as well get my anger out now, I think morosely, slowly getting my arm beneath my upper body to get into a seated position again. Best be as calm as possible, don't want any of them to know what I'm doing until the time comes. I need to go into that damned kitchen - from which I can hear that the altercation appears to have calmed down significantly - because I'm actually hungry for something for once, and I'd as rather not be smothered for them thinking something is wrong; not that they won't be secretly hating doing anything for me, even as they shoot me those looks of pity I'm slowly getting used to again. Assholes.

I sigh as I finally get my feet under me, huddling into my dressing gown as I lament the fact I'm sticky and cold now instead of overheating. Friggin' brilliant. Time to go and hide what I'm feeling, again. This is getting to be a pattern. Just when I get to the point where I think I can finally relax and let myself trust people with my emotions, this sort of thing happens... I absolutely hate it. What rankles even more this time is that Scott is in on it; the one I thought had my back, through everything. Apparently not.

Frankly, it burns, aching inside me, and I clench my jaw to try to bear it. Traitors. I think, darkly. They make me think that they're on my side, then bang, instant betrayal when they think I can't hear them talk. Yeah, who cares that this is hard for them, it's a damn sight harder for me, and they need to fucking remember that!

I make as much noise as I can this time as I head towards the kitchen again, alerting them to the fact that I'm awake, and that they'd better damn shut up unless they want to offend the invalid! Serve them right if they did come face-to-face with me when they're in the middle of arguing, but I'm too tired to deal with a confrontation right now. I'm just tired of all of it. Stupid fucking brothers; who needs them anyway?

I refuse to meet any of their eyes as I shuffle into the room - only Scott and Gordon are here, and the atmosphere appears to be chilly still, as I screw my eyes shut and brace myself for their supposedly-caring commentary. It gives off the pretense that my head is killing me - not that it's far off the mark really, but right now I'll milk the situation if I have to. I need as much stability as I can right now, and what better than the kind I can give myself?

I crack my eyes open just enough to make sure I don't go and do a header into the floorboards, collapsing tiredly into the nearest chair and burying my face in my arms on the table to shield my face. Four can play at this game...

"Hey, Johnny?" Gordon's voice comes into my left ear as I shiver from the kitchen's chill, but I pointedly ignore him. My head is actually pounding, and I know I've got a tension headache without even bothering to examine myself properly. I sigh. At least it's not a damn migraine. I can do without visual disturbances and throw-up today, not on top of everything else that's going on.

"What is it, Gordon?" I mumble, giving in anyway, because if I don't, Scott'll start in on me with Smother-mode, and I can't be bothered dealing with all that shit either. Downer-mood. Yay. "Talk fast, I'm tired."

"Just wanted to know if you want breakfast, before we put everything away?" His hand rests on my shoulder gently, and while I appreciate the warmth that he supplies with the gesture, it takes all I have to not reflexively shake it off because I just don't want the hovering reassurance, much as it is comforting. I need to keep this plan under wraps until I'm ready to unveil it and not have the chance of the lot of them either bullying me into staying or just talking me out of it, period. It's only because I know them, and that my emotional attachment, to them, loathe as I am to admit it, will override any other input I could possibly receive, even my own, rather sound rationality.

"Is there any yoghurt?" I find myself asking quietly, trying to run down the list in my head from the dietary sheet that was sent home with me. "Or muesli? Don't want anything too heavy. Stomach's iffy." Back to monosyllabic answers, of a sort. It's only a matter of time until I end up not speaking unless I have to. Joy.

"Sure, John." Gordon agrees readily, and frighteningly enough, I have the bizarre urge to shout at him, ask him why, if he dislikes helping me so much, why he's even bothering to ask. I bite my lip though and try to ignore the catch in my chest, the phlegm still gloriously at home there, having shifted in my agitation before. It makes me feel like I have a gluggy bubble stuck in the back of my throat. I swallow it with a grimace as Scott speaks up from the corner where I presume he's drinking his morning coffee, his stance somewhat relaxed right now, but even through my near-sightedness, I can see that his shoulders are tense. I keep my face impassive, determined that neither of them will notice.

"No yoghurt, Johnny." He says calmly, and I jerk my head up indignantly, eyes squinted in pain and fuzziness though they are, because that tone he's got is the one that pisses me off royally if I'm in the right - or wrong - temper, as the case may be. Right now, in other words... Strangely enough, Biggest Brother is in his pyjamas still, and though I'm hurt and angry at him right now, I find myself concerned despite myself, as I see how dark those bags are beneath his eyes. He makes a face in apology, before pointing at the paper on the refrigerator with his good hand and shrugs in apparent helplessness. "We've got some, but I'm afraid it's on the no-go list for you 'til your chest is clear. Toast or English muffins, I'm afraid."

"Did the doctor say so, or you, Scott Carpenter?" I snap, somewhat violently, shocking myself. I power on anyway though, unable to put on the brakes. "If I want yoghurt, I'll have yoghurt, it's all I can stomach right now. Toast and muffins require chewing to digest, more chance of making me ill, yoghurt is cool and soothing and I can fucking well swallow it without choking on it! So what if it's a no-go? I'll take the fallout if it is! My body after all: my decision!"

 _Goddamnit_ , I curse to myself, as I see Gordon's mouth drop open from where he's retreated to the other corner, and Scott's eyebrows rise up his forehead. There goes any intention of me trying to keep calm. Screw it. My hands are clenched hard into fists and my heart is beating harshly in anxiety as I fight down my anger, but the damage is clearly done as Scott snaps back, his own temper flaring hot and magnesium-bright.

"The damned sheet, John." He slams his mug down onto the counter, from where he was about to bring it to his lips, striding over to the fridge and whipping the offending paper from beneath the magnets, before shoving it forcefully under my nose. Great, like I can read that, Scott Tracy! "I'm not saying it just to piss you off, you know!"

"You sure about that?" I choke incredulously, my eyes widening, ignoring the jolt of pain that runs through me as I smack his hands away. "Because it sounds an awful lot like you're trying to order me around, again!" Gordon is so far silent still, but with him, for how long who really knows? He'll be next to butt in, I'm positive!

"Is it so wrong to want to keep you safe, John Glenn? To keep you reasonably healthy and here with us? The doctors know what they're doing, if they say you can't have it, then you don't damn well get it, capiche?"

"Don't you get it?" I snarl, shoving my chair back, heedless of the dizziness that hovers at the edge of my vision, stumbling towards the fridge, only to have my older brother shadow me, and get there first. Goddamnit. "I'm not healthy, I'm barely hanging on Scott, so if I damn well want a yoghurt for breakfast, I'm going to have a fucking yoghurt, and screw you if you think otherwise!" My eyes widen in fury as he stands bodily in front of the refrigerator, and before I know it, in defiance of my body's exhaustion and my aches and pains, I'm suddenly in his space and reaching around him for the handle, only to find his arms solidly in the way. "What you gonna do, Scott?"I challenge angrily, coughing sharply as my voice catches, tightening my fingers, where they've wrapped themselves forcefully around his uninjured wrist, nails digging into his skin; as much to hurt him as it is to keep my balance. "Hit me?"

"No," He snaps back. "But I can knock it out of your hands can't I?"

" _No!_ " I splutter in outrage, an unconscious mimicry of his outburst, though my tone is furious rather than stubborn. I yank hard on the fridge door, startled despite myself as I dislodge Scott slightly. Bonus. "You can't, Scott. You're not my goddamned keeper! _Get out of the way!_ "

"No but I am your big brother,"He says coldly, digging his heels in. "And in the absence of Dad, I'm in charge here, and you know damn well Dad will back up what this sheet says you can eat, so knock it off Johnny!"

I glare at him incredulously, shaking my head even as I growl weakly in frustration; pained tears gathering at the corners of my eyes as I feel my socked feet slide a bit on the hardwood. Shit. If I'm not careful I'm gonna fall on my face, but strangely enough, as I consider that thought, I find that I don't care. Not right now.

"Dad is here, Scott," I point out, needlessly in my estimation - is he stupid or what? - clinging stubbornly to his arm, even as I realise that I truly want to punch him one right now. "... And I'm sorry, Big Brother," I say sarcastically, "But you're not in charge either way, regardless of whether he is or not. Last I checked, I'm twenty-two years old, of legal age for everything! So, I'll say it again: get the hell out of my way, and let me get my freaking yoghurt!"

It is a tense moment, as he refuses to move, and Gordon's mouth works, trying to find words. I feel a flash of irritation at my younger brother, for standing back and not doing anything to help - he fucking started this off in the first place, even if Scott compounded it - and I have to admit defeat as I feel my knees wobble dangerously beneath me. I was only released from the hospital recently after all, but dammit!

"Fine then, stuff it." I fume, knowing that I need to move now if I want to avoid humiliating myself even further than I already am right now. I turn blindly away from my brother and stumble across the kitchen, swallowing hard as I try to dispel the hard lump in my throat as I register how indignant he is, a look of outrage on his face. Fuck them. Fuck it all.

"John..." I hear Gordon's footsteps behind me, hesitant, but I can't. I just can't deal with him now. I just can't.

"Not now, Gordon." I snap, successfully managing to hide the catch in my voice, conscious of the burning silence that rolls off of Scott; stock-still behind me. "Just... Just leave me alone."My heart feels filled with lead, and I grit my teeth against the pain in my chest, the ache of emotion and anger both making it hard for me to breathe. I can't believe they're doing this to me...

They're two-faced liars. All of them.

##

After a toilet trip that relieves the burn in my bladder, having managed to escape up to my room without running into either Dad, Virgil or Alan - thank God - I sink painfully onto my bed, shaking violently with a combination of cold and disbelief. Raking my hands through my thinning hair, I breathe as deeply as I am able, and I find my resolve strengthening as I reaffirm my decision of needing to get out of this, get away from my family, let them lead their lives again, without having to be thinking about me in every waking moment. It isn't narcissistic to acknowledge that they are always thinking about me, because it's nice to be considered and be concerned for, but at the same time, there is nothing I want more than to rewind everything again to when it was all normal. I want to reverse everything back to the way it was, before this all occurred, before it all got so far up shit creek that there's no way to return.

 _Well_ , I think grimly, staring at my hands - the nails brittle and the skin dry and chapped from the drug regimen - _that just decided it, didn't it?_ Even with my vision fuzzy from my lack of glasses, I can clearly see the blue lines of my veins, raised to the top with both anaemia and stress, and I gasp as my thoughts register it, trying to rein myself in. _Just get through today, and then we can sort details. One more fucking day, and then you can get out of here._

Pinching the bridge of my nose in an effort to relieve the pressure behind my eyes, I blow out an explosive breath as I screw them closed, swallowing back the taste of metal that follows it up into my mouth. I hate this whole damned situation, so much. I feel physically sick to my stomach, so much so that I find the thought of returning to the kitchen in pursuit of something to eat utterly horrendous. I've got to contend with my medications yet, and the sheer amount I have to take makes me shudder just thinking about them. Anger at Scott, Virgil and Gordon still thrums through my body; my shoulders tense, my back and stomach aching and my head thudding with the pounding of the blood in my ears. I breathe in shakily as I climb properly onto the bed and hike my skinny legs up, biting back a yelp as I almost smack my still-aching skull on the headboard behind me. The short-lived surge of adrenaline is slowly receding as exhaustion crashes over me again, making me shiver as my body decides to start trembling even harder, like I've had a caffeine overdose. Great.

Sighing, I lay back, dragging my hand wearily down my face as I huddle into a ball, trying to get comfortable in a body that no longer feels like my own. I'm uncoordinated, aching, and my limbs feel too big and clunky to belong to me. It makes me feel like I'm the gangly teenager I was only a few years ago, and I dislike that continuing sensation with a passion. I do not appreciate being transformed back into my old klutzy, wobbly self; I've tripped over so many things over the last few days it is just totally unreasonable, a combination of the drugs I'm on, general fatigue and illness itself that has meant that my whole sense of balance and equilibrium has just flown completely out the window. Blech, blech, blech.

Though it's only me in the room, no one looking at me but myself right now, I still find myself furiously swiping away the hot tears as they suddenly collect at the corners of my eyes, the emotional whiplash smacking me around as my whole emotion set see-saws. I hate how fucking teary I've become, how utterly shakeable, when I never used to be. Part of me recognises that I was being obstinate before in the kitchen, but the rest of me refuses to consider backing down. Seriously. Especially after I recall, with a flash of burning fury, exactly what I heard before that...

Sure, one tub of yoghurt might possibly be pushing the boundaries of what is allowed in terms of the newly-established diet, but God help me if I can't have just the tiniest bit of choice in a situation where I literally have no other control at all. Let me fucking have some sort of allowance to manipulate and decide on the course of action I want to take with the little things! I hate this.

I curse mentally, choking back a sob as I tug my quilt over myself, and it is with no warning that I feel the heat of shame flushing through me, though still mixed with the burning injustice of words I wasn't meant to hear. With a sense of exhausted resignation sinking deep and fast in my gut, I find that I can't do anything else right now but let myself succumb to the quiet tears.

##

I'm coaxed into awareness by a gentle hand tapping me on the cheek, and the stomach-turning scent of rich tomato as it hits me full in the face. Unable to recall falling asleep in the first place - I must have cried myself out - I make a face as I become aware that I'm stiff, uncomfortably hot and my throat is dry as the floors of the rock caverns back at home. I force my eyes open nevertheless, wondering through a renewed surge of fury, who on earth it is that's coming to pretend to look after me now.

Heavy-headed and gritty-eyed, squinting through my blurry vision, I take in Dad's concerned face and his blue eyes, looking me over with a reserved expression, and I blink in bemusement as he smiles wearily, wordlessly holding out a hand. Unable to be angry at him - because as of yet I am unaware that he has said or done anything to cause me any kind of offence - I just let out a small nod and sigh, wearily allowing myself to be guided to a sitting position, letting out a wince as my spine once again decides that it doesn't want to move without any sort of protest.

"You okay?" He queries, frowning lightly, clearly with no idea on why I'm holed up here on my own, or at least, he's better than I expected him to be at this whole conceal-don't-show thing that's apparently been going on... I nod though - because right now I need some measure of an assuredly-friendly face, without actually confronting that - and accept my father's assistance gracefully.

"Thanks." I croak, letting out a deep, ragged cough as he settles the pillows behind my throbbing back. I'm glad that he can see that I'm barely able to move right now, even if I freaking wanted to, and I know just from how sick I feel at the moment, deep in my gut, that my face is clammy and I'm likely rather pale. I hate side-effects. We both know from experience that I'm always just about useless after a radiotherapy appointment, so the fact that he's brought my meal up to me - much as I don't particularly want to eat anything now - rather than trying to cajole me into trekking down the stairs when he's clearly been noted that I've already done it once, really means a lot when so many other things are going on in my head.

I rub my head tiredly. First things first then.

I place my glasses on my nose as Dad passes me the first pill cup from the nightstand where I can see the other two, the thermometer and the unlidded thermos waiting for me to get to them. Making a face, I silently tip it up, grimacing at the bitterness of the pills inside, and gratefully accepting the glass of water my father trades the container out with. The water sits awkwardly in my gut, but the pills appear to be inclined to stay put, if uncomfortably.

Feeling oddly like I've run a marathon at some point within the last several hours, I blink tiredly as Dad glances at me as he turns to the table again. "How are you feeling, John?" He asks quietly, his own face looking worn and tired as he passes me the last two pill cups in short order. "How's your head, hmm?" He places the back of his hand on my forehead as a routine sort of movement, and I let him, leaning tiredly into the coolness without a thought. This is so much of a familiar occurrence, it stopped being weird about twenty-nine-thousand illnesses ago.

I squint at him, swallowing back the coating of _ew, gross_ in the back of my throat, still dry despite the water, and force the words out, hoping I sound calm, sort of anyway, cos the other thing is still hovering at the back there, like an unwelcome apparition... "Sore," I admit, because now I'm paying it attention: _ouch_. "But it's alright at the moment, I guess..."

"Okay... You're still rather warm though." Dad murmurs to himself, apparently not even expecting a proper answer, because he scoops the thermometer up without even waiting for me to elaborate and holding it in the air in front of my blinking eyes, raises an eyebrow in expectation. "Open up for me."

I do so with a grimace, disgusted at the taste of cold plastic, thankful in some disconnected way for all his efficiency - because even if we take away my cancer battles and the occurrence of Scott's mononucleosis, between the five of us boys, we had enough illnesses over the time we were growing up to last us about twenty years... He's used to this by now. I do rather like a bit of disconnected, no-need-to-put-any-effort-in action every once in a while...

I'm quite sure that I drift off again slightly - goddamned, stupid-warm-sleepy head - because I jump a mile when the thermometer beeps loudly, breaking through the fuzz a little. I want the aural one next time, for the split second before he removes it, I register that Dad's got his fingers gently gripping my chin as my slack mouth was apparently trying to spit it back out before it was finished. _Yuck_. Forcing my eyes open wearily, I hear him tut a little as he notes the reading down, and I struggle to wake myself up properly - this reclining-in-a-half-seated-position thing is doing wonders for my lungs, and bedthings-that-smell-like-Grandma's-vanilla-laundry-powder... Perfection. No wonder I'm dozy. I yawn widely - a move that hurts my throat more than I'd like, but it doesn't set my still-glitchy lungs or my aching side off, and it wakes me up a little better than anything else so far so... Good things.

As that thought registers, even through the still-lingering fire of the morning's absolute shithole events burning through my veins, I catch a glance of my father's face, and he's so amused and yet tired and worried and just plain old Dad, that it chokes me up a little more than I want to admit. He at least has never let me down. Never, ever, ever. I can rely on him. Dad and his glow-in-the-dark stickers that are still clinging stubbornly to my ceiling, even after nearly fifteen years, his hand on my arm and his eyes on mine, and so close and solid, right when I need him. I can trust him, with anything.

My heart beats fast as I realise what I have to do. He'll understand. He'll know what I mean when I say I need to have control, that I need to get out of here. He'll always be patient with me, unlike the others. Dad's been here through it enough to recognise it; he's seen this all before. Even when Scott went back to school eventually, and it was just us and Grandma and Granddad, and sometimes the Sprout at home, he was here with me, he was here through everything the others missed, everything they didn't see, everything I went through. He knows everything.

Suddenly, the words are choking me as I try to speak, getting stuck up my throat, and behind my tonsils, and the cursed tears start again. Dad's got his hands on my shoulders as the electricity fizzles under my skin, heightening every sense, every moment captured as though on a polaroid photo; the words I overheard from my brothers, my so-called brothers who are scared and aching and terrified, yes, but should've freaking remembered that I have ears; stuff normality, stuff what I wanted before.

Now it's different and it hurts, and I'm scared, and they need to go back to the Island before I ruin them too, before I hurt myself more just by being unable to bear _their_ hurt and fear. Suddenly, I'm unable to hold the words back, like the damn is unsticking again, and I let loose everything they said, everything they made me feel, even if some parts of it was unmeant, and fucking-goddammit, I see Dad's face crumble and his eyes darken and flatten to a nasty blue-grey colour that means he's unbearably upset. _Shit_.

"Oh John... I'm sorry." He says quietly, when I'm finished, tears choking my voice again, and my fingers clenching in the blankets so hard it goddamn hurts. "I'm sorry you had to hear any of that, but they don't mean it and you know that perfectly well. They're frightened for you, and you know that, so try not to judge them too harshly for it." His eyes are sad and his mouth twists into a line squeezes my shoulder, but I don't feel half as soothed as I should do, like his reassurances aren't working as much as they normally would. Contradictions, yay.

"I just can't inflict it on them any more..." I mumble, bringing my hand up to snarl in my hair, hating the slippery, oily consistency that slicks my fingers. I need a shower soon, I need to climb out of my skin, actually. Too bad no one's worked that one out yet... "I can't stand them being cramped into this, I mean," I choke a little on the words again, anxiety rising up like bile. "I mean, sure, it's fantastic, having you all here, I... I couldn't do it without you, but I can't... I just can't force them into it when they're so restless, Dad. They're anxious and they're angry that they can't do anything, I get that, but they need the distraction, I can't stand them having to snipe at each other, they don't need the stress. I need to get out of here." I say desperately, forcing my eyes to meet my father's. I can see that his gaze is filled with upset and worry for me, but there is a grim understanding in his expression, and I let out a long breath as I realise that he's gotten it, almost immediately, what it is I'm talking about.

"I need to be re-admitted somewhere, Dad... I... It's not fair on you or the boys. We... we all know what's coming, and... the time at home has been great in itself but, I... I just need the space, I need to be able to breathe, really." I say honestly, wiping my eyes. "I love them, I love you, but all of us in the one house, it's just too hard. It's too hard on you, Virge needs to cope with his diagnosis without me distracting him, Scott's back to his nightmares Dad, he... he can't go on much longer without proper sleep - it's Paul and Tom all over again, with Belagant... 'Five, all of it... Gords and Al... they... they don't need to see all the uglies, the awful stuff, not again, I can't deal with the thought that my baby brothers are going to watch this all happen!" I cry. Dad is waiting me out - God, Dad, thank you - and I gulp back the incoherence, because he needs to know all of it. "I need to be away from you, because I don't want to crush all of you. You guys need that time, and I need to prepare myself, mentally for the transplant. I'm not... not asking to separate myself from you guys, Grandma, completely, but I just need to have someone else take care of me so you guys can take care of yourselves. Please." I plead, unable to rein in the sobs that clog my voice. "Please, help me get out of here."

As the words finally trickle off, I tug my knees to my chest, burying my face in them with a harsh sob, fighting back full-blown hysteria that begins to rise inside me. Without any delay, Dad's arms are around me, bundling me up and doing his damn best to tuck me under his chin, like he has anytime I've ever been so overwhelmed that I curl into myself like this. He knows my warning signs, so thank God he's here, he's my anchor again. _Thank you Dad, thank you..._

"Of course I will, Johnny..." He murmurs fiercely into my ear, rocking me gently from side to side, his own voice thick with emotion. "I would much rather have you here with us Son, where I can make sure you're okay, but, like I've always told you, your needs come first, as do your brothers', you're right on all of that." He rubs my back and I feel the tears burning my eyes, but I cling to him like I'm a child again; he's solid and whole and he's warm. It's nice, especially when my whole soul feels like it's ripping in two. "If you need it, much as it breaks my heart, of course I'll help you." Dad pulls back, and while my brain expects it, my heart does a little stutter of shock when I see the tearstains on his face, matching mine as the salt water drips onto the blankets between us. Dear God, we're freaking screwed...

"Thank you." I manage, feeling the phlegm stick in my throat, trying to calm my gasps so I can continue to breathe like any normal person should be able to do... Theoretically. "Thanks so much..."

"It's what I'd do for any of the others, John, and you know it." He informs me, sternly, grinning slightly as he wipes his own face. "Now, you need to calm down before you make yourself worse, alright?" The fire is back in his voice, but I still can't help but grip his arms as I nod, reluctantly pulling back. "Deep breaths okay, and then we'll get rid of some of that muck I can hear in your chest."

He's not ignoring what I just said - when my father says something, he damn well means he's going to do it - but he's taking control of what he knows once more, and making sure the situation is in hand before he moves onto the next task. That's just the way he works.

I do as he says with my breathing exercises - sent home with me on yet another damn sheet of paper to regulate everything I do right now - and my respiratory rhythm does swiftly even out, as much as it can with the remains of the brain-drain pneumonia still gluing it up anyway. I sink wearily against the pillows - well and truly ready to nap again, though every fibre of me despises the thought - and watch as Dad prepares the mask and nebuliser solution to clear up said congestion, and I wonder disjointedly, whether I'm going to be able to choke down that soup when the fifteen-minute torture period, and the coinciding hacking session is over...

I groan internally as I think on that, after everything else that happened last night and so far today... _Yuck_.

##

I stay in my room after Dad leaves, trying to read Stephen Lawhead's _Tuck_ without falling asleep, and wincing at every inhalation. My lungs are aching from the coughs that damn near made me choke, hacking up yellowy, gunky sputum again, but at least I can breathe better than I did before. Somewhat.

That soup freaking hurt going down, I admit freely, and having no appetite at all sucked, but my stomach is definitely aching less now that I've got something in it, even if it wasn't the yoghurt I wanted so much. That's a psychological state of affairs though, because it's aching for a number of reasons right now; being constantly nauseous from treatment, pills, at least partial constipation (don't ask), and the swollen lymph fluid inside my spleen - so it's just wishful thinking, really, but still... It's something and it's working to make me feel a little more human, so who the hell am I to complain?

Letting out an inarticulate growl of annoyance as the print swims in front of my tired eyes again, I grumpily shove my bookmark in and drop the novel onto the bedside table with a thump, rubbing my aching forehead. The others went out not long before Dad came in, apparently, and he told me before he left that he was going to call one of our rather notorious 'family meetings' when they return home from wherever-they-went, so that I can tell the others myself that I want to go into care, as such. Fantastic. Dad did say that he'll help me out with it, but I guess I was dumb to expect that he give them the news for me. No such luck. I should've known, really, Dad has always said that a job well done is one better done yourself, so really, I was right not to say anything about it, even though I hate the idea. Doesn't make it any easier to contemplate though.

Stupid, jittery butterflies are flapping in my belly, and it's ridiculous, because they're my brothers and I should feel anything but nervous in front of them, but apparently, I can't help it. Doesn't help that my side is hurting again, so my gasp-pant breaths feel like they're pulling at the checked-over scar and the aching ribs beneath, so on top of the stoush from earlier - only three hours ago, for God's sakes - I'm going to be grumpy, sore, tired, nauseous and any number of things, and that means that this is going to be a difficult situation to work through. I just hope that Dad intends to stay, because with how grumpy he's been lately - and no, I can't talk - Scott will not be a happy guy when I say my piece, and I just don't have the energy to deal with him properly. Yeah, two nights ago we were still tight as anything, today I hardly want to speak to him, though he's scaring the shit out of me with every thought I have with regards to his current state of mind. I'm glad that I've finally said something to Dad on the subject, but again, it's hard to consider that Scott has let this go on so far, especially when he knows that it's important he get issues addressed.

After all, I'm not the only one who's had issues with anxiety and depression in our lives...

Sighing tiredly, knowing that the more I think about it, the more I'm going to stew and work myself into knots about it, I simply close my eyes and try to doze, knowing that my father will wake me up when the boys get back - as promised - and I'll need all my strength to face them and tell them what I've got planned for the next few weeks. And if they don't like it, well, I don't really give a flip. Stuff them.

##

Despite my best efforts, I'm still alert by the time I hear the tread of footsteps in the hallway outside my room. Squinting my eyes open, I blink wearily, allowing them to adjust, as Dad knocks on the open door with an enquiring look, and seeing that I'm awake, he pushes it wider, allowing my brothers to file in, youngest to oldest, funnily enough, and their faces a curious spectrum of annoyed, frustrated, curious and worried, in order from eldest to youngest, respectively.

My body shaking, I push myself up into a seating position again, and rub my eyes as I slide my glasses back on from where I dumped them back on my nightstand earlier. I watch them silently as they take up various positions around my still mostly-empty room; I've not been here long enough to be able to re-personalise the place again, and so while Scott takes the desk chair, and Virgil the one Dad dragged in here from the kitchen the night before last, the Terrible Two are forced to find other places to sit, Gordon seating himself comfortably on the end of the bed, and Alan demoted to sitting up against my old oak dresser, legs crossed at the ankles out in front of him on the floor.

Their gazes burn into me with a mix of hostility and burning curiosity, each face hosting a different range of emotions, and I flick a somewhat uneasy gaze at Dad as he leans solidly just inside the doorframe, nodding to me as I swallow, trying - freaking stupid though it is - to gather my nerve.

Abnormally for me - or perhaps this is normal for me now - I don't start with niceties, I'm unable to find the strength to be polite right now, so I just say the words, unfiltered, unshuttered, unrestrained. Tough for them if they don't like it. I don't like it either.

I pull my knees to my chest, and as I look at my siblings over the tops of them - seeing four people that insanely enough, in the last day or so feel like they've become strangers to me - feel like somehow, curled up like this, I'm protecting myself from them. "I'm leaving."

The words are tireder and flatter than I expect, and that perhaps scares me more than anything else in my head right now. But my brothers just stare at me for a moment, gobsmacked, even as I dig my fingers into my wrists within my pyjama sleeves, attempting nonchalance; even though we all know it's a lie.

"Why?" Alan asks quietly, after a long, loaded moment of silence and ringing shock, his brow puckered, his blue eyes wide with surprise and worry. His voice trembles and I hate it. This is right. "It's not that bad, is it?"

Scott's voice cuts me off before I can reply, and even after this morning, despite our blow-out, his tone still shocks me.

"Because John can't deal with it anymore, Alan." He snorts, his violet-blue eyes hard, mouth thin as a taut wire as he addresses our little brother. "Because he doesn't like taking orders, even if it's to damn well help him. They released you, John," He stares at me, lip curling in anger. Where the hell did my brother go? Where the _fuck_ did my Scott go? This isn't like him... "Or did you forget that?"

"I know they fucking released me Scott." I snap, hating the swearing, wincing at the ragged sound of my own voice, throat still raw from the nebuliser session. "I'll pay for a place to goddamn take me if it lets you lot just get on with it! I may as well use my trust fund for something besides books and computer games, not much else to fucking use it for right now, is there? I'm... I'm just past imposing on all of you, like I'm so much of a burden for you to bear." I feel tears prickling at my eyes (what the hell, again?), but swallow them away. I will not let them make me fucking cry. Not now. "Me moving out will get you back out there with IR, away from me and the stupid, hard, dark, fucking oppressive rut that we're all stuck in right now. Go back to the island, go back to the 'Birds, go back to having a life that doesn't include staring at me, fighting over me, wondering when I'm next going to fall in a heap and go to fucking pieces, it makes this harder to deal with than it already is!"

Their faces are gobsmacked and angry from my statements, all four of them, but I'm just so tired of this right now. I need this, and I'm past caring, even if I rip my throat to pieces getting the point across. I hate their attitudes towards me today. Yeah, Alan's not done anything, yet, but I care about their emotional states, even if my mouth is running off. God, I hope that they can see I'm struggling to say what I need to here... Please... "I can have a fucking break down anytime I need to then, without it being broadcast over the family grapevine before I even wake up! I'm sick to the back teeth of everybody in this family of ours knowing what my state of health is before I do!"

"That isn't our fault, John!" Virgil growls, crossing his arms, his jaw tight. "You were in a freaking hospital bed, out of it and drugged to the gills, you're still sick. We're trying to help you, you know, there's no need to be so selfish!"

My mouth opens in outrage, but then Alan's suddenly off and racing, apparently taken it all wrong, as damn usual and doesn't think before he speaks. "Yeah, John!" He says earnestly, and I want him to shut up. "It's not like you coulda talked to us, you know, even if we wanted you to, you were in that bed, we... we didn't know if you were going to wake up, I... I couldn't see you, you know, you shouldn't have gotten that far..."

I can't help it, their two comments make me see red, digging my fingers into my knees and clenching my jaw as I gulp the tears back again. "Did I ask to get the goddamn fucking thing twice?" I snarl furiously, glaring at Alan, who once again, cannot keep his fat mouth shut; it's swinging in the wind and he's going to catch flies if he's not careful. Serves him right, I think viciously. What kind of insensitive comment was that!? "Do I deserve it? C'mon guys there's a question for you! After all we've done to help in this world why do I get cancer again?"

Scott's face is getting paler and paler, but I've truly been set me off this time, and I just can't stop myself. It's like I'm a runaway train, flying off the tracks, but frankly, I don't give a fuck, because this needs to be said, even if it hurts all of us. I'm too sick, too tired, too sore to be able to deal with coddling their fragile egos at the moment. Right now, it's all about me, numero uno, me, myself and I. Not about them. Not at all.

"And for the record: nobody asked you lot to put me first at all times!" I spit, gripping the blanket, breaths gasping through me as I shake, my mouth in a straight, thin line as I try to not fall apart. "I can look after myself, guys, I might need a bit of... extra help, I may be sick but I'm not in my grave yet! How do you think it makes me feel to know my little brother is dicing with his own health because of me?" I shoot a withering glare at Virgil, who has his arms crossed, hazel eyes furious at the mention of his condition, as I knew he would be, his face flushed and pale. He looks like he'll throw something at me in a minute. Bring it.

"I'll return you all to a semblance of normality, I've already spoken to Dad," I jerk my head towards our father, who I'd nearly forgotten about. My strong, unbreakable father, I realise, is biting his thumbnail like Virgil does when he's stressed. I fight back _that_ upset and bite my lip. I need to finish this... Come on, Johnny... "He's making the arrangements for me. So I'm going to pack and move out, let you guys have a break, because I sure as hell need a break. I need a break from me, so I know for sure that you guys do."

"And who gave you the God-given right to decide that, John?" Gordon raises an eyebrow, the sole somewhat-calm one in the room. "What makes you think you have any idea of what we're thinking and feeling? You don't know, what proof do you have aside from your own, overtired, ridiculous assumptions? You can't make judgements like that and just expect us to take it lying down."

"Well..." I glare at him stonily, feeling the incredulous anger rise in my chest again, lending me the strength to keep going. "Lets just say that three of my oldest siblings need to learn to keep their volumes a little lower when you're talking about me in another room. I woke up to your little argument this morning, you know? And if you lot truly think that it's selfish to want to look after all of us by getting out of here so we can all breathe, well thanks, thanks a lot."

"It is selfish, Johnny." Scott interjects, his eyes flat and his face flushed with anger. "We're doing nothing but be here in this house, helping you, looking out for you, because that's what siblings do. You don't even notice half the time what we do for you every day, how everything we do is to try and make this as easy as we can for you. None of us can even try to fathom what you're going through, but you've never been on the other side of the fence, you've never had to watch it happen, so you need to snap out of it, because if you can't see that we've made our entire state of being revolve around you, then you're even more screwed up than I thought!"

"Like I said." I say, struggling to keep my temper, stop myself from having another meltdown. God, it's unusual for Dad to keep quiet for this long, especially with the swearing that's going on - he hates it... Guess he thinks this is more important than foul language. "That's exactly the problem. You shouldn't have to." I clear my throat painfully, the flesh inside dry and sore from all the talking and yelling. My eyes are burning as I look at my brothers, and we're getting absolutely nowhere. "I don't want you to drive yourselves into the ground, the pressure needs to be taken off of you all, and it can't happen while I'm still living here. It just _can't_."

"And what if we don't care?" Scott says heatedly, exchanging a glance with Gordon and Virgil. Alan just looks stunned, his gaze flicking from Scott to me like we're in a tennis match. "You're our brother, John, everything we do is to make this better for you, somehow. We wouldn't still be here if we didn't care about you, I don't like you insinuating that we don't, thanks, you need to take a breath and step back, because everything we do, it's for you."

"Well I could care less Scott." I shake my head wearily, unable to do this for much longer, my head is killing me now. My brow scrunches up as I look wearily between the four of them, and I suddenly just feel both utterly exhausted and horribly emotional. "I just can't do this, thinking that I'm hurting you all, every single time. I need to go for my own sanity as well as yours, it's just too much. There's not much left of me, so I'll be damned if I hurt any of you in the process. I'm missing out on everything, and I refuse for you guys to miss out on it all too. I just can't."

Abruptly, the fire fades from Scott's eyes, even though his posture is still so tense, gripping the edges of the chair as though it's going to take off with him on it. Virgil is staring at me, his gaze hard, but his mouth trembling, and the boys just seem at a loss for words now they've said their piece. My oldest brother leans forward suddenly, his mouth turning down, even as he commands that I meet his eyes right now. He shares a glance with Dad, standing nonchalantly by the door now, and I suddenly, strangely, feel as though I'm missing something, when before I felt so sure, even if completely terrified at the same time.

"You weren't meant to find out until tomorrow, Johnny..." He says gently, and it's such a contrast to his attitude before I feel almost as though he's flipped a switch inside that's turned his bad mood off quite successfully. He's still terribly exhausted, I can see that clearly, but there's a bit of happiness there, and I can't deny that I am just totally confused. "You weren't meant to find out until tomorrow morning, to make sure that you were feeling okay to do it, but... I think we need to tell you now. God knows you need a pick-me-up..."

Scott trails off for a moment, and I blink as a lazy wave of dizziness passes over me, watching my brothers' expressions in confusion as various shades of recognition flash across their faces. His gaze locks with mine, and it is with a self-depreciating smile arching across his still-tight lips that he leans forward in his chair further. I'm totally confused and not afraid to show it, but I just flutter my eyelids wildly as I try to jerk myself into focusing, and oddly it feels like my mind clears, at least a little. What my brother says next though, literally leaves me reeling.

"We know that Sherry's getting married tomorrow, Johnny... She wanted you to be there, and we all knew it, so Dad suggested weeks ago, and she and Sky agreed that, because we can't get you to South Africa, we'd bring your best friend and her wedding to you..."


End file.
